"Welcome to Rosie's, please help yourself." The breakfast buffet was set out in the warmers, and the first wave of diners had already finished their go through, leaving a moment of peace before the later risers would make their way down. Though she had expected to see the survivor at some point or another, Charlie couldn't help but be a little taken aback at first sight of an unfamiliar face. She'd always felt like she'd met just about everyone in the building, but here he was.

Was it true? The commotion that had filled the hallways of The Penthouse's main wing was impossible to ignore, and Ember had known instantly that the guys had returned. Peering out from the kitchen doorway, a hidden bottle of champagne pressed into the small of her back, she drank it all in as a stranger was lead into her father's study in front of the other two. A survivor? From outside? The plane crash maybe!

Waiting for the others to leave, Ember gave another quick check if the coast was clear before stashing her bottle behind a vase in the corridor and tip toeing her way to the door. An impressive feat considering her inanely expensive six inch Louboutin's. Only once she was sure that neither her father nor Liam were on their way did she finally push open the door to peek around into the luxurious space itself.

People pass around moonshine like it’s the end of time. In a place like this, they might not be far off. Clementine eyes the bottom of her glass and the distortion of the cup across the sand in flickering lights. Someone clears their throat sharply. She looks up, holding up the glass, blinking away the bit of dizziness that comes from too many drinks. “Yes?” And the answer is a pointed look behind her where three people stand in a circle, faces close enough to kiss. But... She squints. Not kiss. They shove each other.

Exasperated, she climbs to her feet and makes her stumbling way over to them. A blink, and she’s there, standing between them. “Really?” she states, one hand moving to her hip. One man - burly, a good head taller than her, but standing in a way that makes her think he’ll run if she makes one sharp retort - stares at her, arms crossing. “Get outta here, lady, this isn’t a conversation for ya.” 

Clementine sighs. “I can’t. You’re causing a scene. It’s embarrassing and they’ll make me handle it.” They, of course, being no one. Maybe she can eyeball people at the farm as part of Emre’s strange security task force, but here? At the Pit? His friend - short, sharp-eyed, with an expression of someone who will pick a fight to prove a point - snorts in response. She eyes him thoughtfully. Then a familiar figure appears somewhere behind them and the three men protest at her inattention. She ignores them some more. “I was wondering where you were. I saw your nephew running around with the dancers a little while ago.” The grin on her face is as much the effect of several drinks as it is the sight of a friend.