On a balmy Friday night in December, Zoe Londyn sipped a vintage Dom Perignon Brut from a gilded champagne flute, alone. The view from the twenty-first floor lanai of her hotel room —was designed for at least two. The crescent moon suspended above an indigo sky — orange streaks from an earlier sun layered beneath, mini shadows of leftover party goers dancing on the ocean’s shoreline, and their giddiness wafting through the air left her heavy-hearted.