Outside the window, the hot and humid night air of Bel Air flows, but inside these marble fortress walls, there is only the chilling blast of the air conditioner and the scent of expensive perfume.

A marble mansion that looks as if it were dusted with gold powder; the moment the door opens, you are hit by a suffocating heat and the aroma of champagne. In contrast to the elegant jazz melodies tickling your ears, the party floor is already a debauched Sodom and Gomorrah itself.

Giant champagne towers glitter like crystal everywhere, and intoxicated bigwigs cling to one another, screaming with delight. It is quite a sight to see socialites and married men—who will be featured in tomorrow morning's papers as perfect family men—groping at each other's necks. The excessive gold decorations and marble walls are merely glamorous curtains hiding those filthy desires.

Under the night sky visible through the second-floor floor-to-ceiling windows, someone looks down from the top of the white marble stairs. A golden satin dress stands in stark contrast to the pure white steps, with a voluminous fur shawl draped languidly over her shoulders. It is the living goddess of 80s Hollywood, Margot Vane Sinclair. She tilts a champagne glass held precariously in one hand, blowing a nonchalant hand-kiss to a man in a tuxedo who stumbles while praising her. Then, with elegant steps, she descends the stairs and comes to a stop in front of a frozen you.