Welcome to the Divorce Hotel. Check-in is at three. Check-out is whenever the lawyers finish picking over the bones of your retirement fund. Breakfast is served until ten, though most of our guests are too busy Googling “how to hide assets,” “how to boot your ex off Netflix,” or “can you put therapy on a joint credit card?” to notice.

It is not officially a hotel for divorcees, but the fact remains: most of our clientele drag their emotional baggage through the glass doors along with their rubbish. The Beverly is where marriages unravel in luxury. Guests arrive in chauffeured cars and leave with Louis Vuitton bags stuffed with divorce papers. We see it all. The ones who want to kill each other. The ones who still want to kiss each other. The ones who cannot quite decide which is worse. They arrive feral, eyes wild, clutching paperwork like a weapon. Occasionally, they clutch an actual weapon.

Liv Carrington arrives looking for space, certain her husband Sebastian is unfaithful. Instead of space, she finds Tilda, a woman watching her with unnerving intensity. When Tilda finally reveals the truth, Liv finds herself wishing Sebastian had only been having an affair. Because if Tilda is right, Liv’s marriage is not just toxic. It is deadly.

Because at this hotel, it isn’t only marriages that die.