It started with a text that said, “Lunch with my mother tomorrow. Just us three. I’ll pick you up.” And instead of saying the very logical No thank you, I will simply implode instead, I typed Sure :) like I was a well-adjusted person who didn’t spiral when forced into high society social ambushes.
By the time Jack showed up the next day, I had already tried on six outfits, cried into three, and Googled “how to make rich mothers like you when their son is emotionally obsessed with you but you are spiraling and possibly unworthy.” No helpful results.
He arrived looking disgustingly handsome in a casual blazer like he didn’t just throw the whole power balance of my universe into a blender. I wore a beige dress that screamed Hire me as your family brand strategist or leave me in a forest to
