Chaos in Heels

The Moreau Grand Hotel stood tall and proud, flexing its glass-and-steel muscles like it was the destination in the city. When Deja's taxi pulled up, she already knew what she was about to walk into: another one of her family's pretentious milestones where they forgot the most important part—her. She spotted her family gathered like a damn shrine at the front, posing like the cover of a tacky magazine. Her father, looking stiff enough to be a statue, her mother all elegant and perfect, Trevor standing off to the side with a smile that looked faker than a $5 weave. And there, right in the middle of it all, was Dominique.

Deja didn't even try to hide the eye roll that practically broke her neck.

"Oh, I see how it is," she muttered, slapping the cash into the driver's hand. "You couldn't wait five minutes for your actual daughter to arrive, huh?"

She stepped out of the cab, adjusting her oversized sunglasses and smirked. The ribbon was cut, the crowd went wild, and Deja's father turned to spot her. His face immediately soured—because, of course, it would.

"Deja." His voice carried that familiar tone of disappointment. "You're late. Again."

Deja clicked her tongue, looking at her father as if he'd just told her to eat a rock. "Really? I'm late? You're the one who left without me, remember? It's not like I'd be in the family photo anyway." She gestured dramatically toward Dominique, standing front and center, her wig bouncing in the sunlight like it was its own personality. "What is this? Is she the queen now?"

Her parents exchanged glances, their faces a mix of confusion and maybe a touch of shame—maybe. Trevor, ever the loyal soldier, just stared at the floor like he was hoping it would swallow him whole.

Deja didn't even break a sweat. She shrugged, tossing her designer clutch over her shoulder. "Whatever, I'm starving. This event better have some decent food, though, or I'm out."

She strutted into the hotel like she was a celebrity, heels clicking loud enough to echo through the marble lobby. As she walked past the grand chandeliers and art pieces that probably cost more than most people's rent, she couldn't help but feel a little rebellious. This was her show now.

The scent of fancy hors d'oeuvres and champagne wafted through the air, and Deja's stomach immediately answered. She grabbed a plate and began piling it high—forget the dainty bites the other guests were taking, she wasn't here for a snack. She was here for full plates.

"Are you going save some for the rest of us?" a deep voice teased from behind her.

Deja turned to see Trevor, all stiff and polished in his suit, standing there like he had a stick shoved up his backside. He was staring at her plate, his mouth twitching in irritation.

"Maybe if y'all had waited for me this morning, I wouldn't be starving," Deja snapped, unbothered as she piled on a third canapé.

"Stop embarrassing us," Trevor hissed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching them. "This is an important day for the family business."

Deja's eyes flashed with mischief, and she turned to face him with a grin that could cut through ice. "Oh, I'm sorry! Am I not performing my role as the perfect Moreau daughter?" She grabbed a petit four, popped it in her mouth whole, and exaggerated a dramatic "mmm" as if she were at a five-star restaurant.

Trevor's face flushed with anger, but before he could respond, Deja's expression suddenly changed. Her eyes widened, and she frantically began looking around.

The pastry tasted... wrong. Not just bad, but chemical. Bitter underneath the sweetness. "This lil bougie-ass cupcake tastes like evil," she mumbled, lips half-closed, chewing slower now like she was suspicious of it betraying her again. "Why it taste like battery acid and broken promises?"