Chaos in Heels

The morning light stabbing through Deja's curtains felt like personal violence. She groaned, rolled over, and immediately regretted the movement as her brain sloshed painfully against her skull. Memories from last night flickered across her consciousness like a traumatic slideshow: the dress, the gala, challenging some old businessman to a dance-off, being carried into the house by Ren...

"Oh no," she croaked, voice scratchy like she'd been chain-smoking gravel. "Oh hell no."

Deja fumbled for her phone, squinting at the screen. 8:17 AM. Two hours before the Sandersen meeting that Ren had mentioned. Ren, who had carried her drunk ass into the house. Ren, who had seen her at peak messiness and somehow still looked at her like she hung the moon.

"This is a disaster," she mumbled, dragging herself upright. The room spun for a moment before settling into an uneasy stillness. "Fifty million dollars, Deja. Focus on the fifty million dollars."

She dragged herself upright, glancing toward the mirror. What greeted her could only be described as... post-apocalyptic glam. Her makeup looked like it had fought someone and lost. Her afro was giving "art installation meets crime scene." And yes—yes, that was a cocktail olive stuck to her collarbone like a shameful little boutonnière.

"Girl," she whispered to her reflection. "You look like you got jumped by a martini."

After a shower that she spent mostly leaning against the wall contemplating her life choices, Deja dressed in the most severe outfit she could find – a black pencil skirt, crisp white button-down, and sleek blazer. Ice Queen aesthetic. Professional. Detached. Nothing like the chaotic woman who had asked the mayor if his toupee had its own Instagram.

Dark sunglasses? Check. Lip gloss? Glossier than her future. Vibes? Cold-blooded executive. She was ready.

"Good morning, sunshine!" her mother's voice sang out from the kitchen, cheerful as a drill sergeant with a new batch of recruits.

Deja froze on the last step. "Shhh. Volume. Please."

She shuffled into the kitchen to find both her parents and Trevor seated around the breakfast table, all of them looking at her with expressions ranging from amusement to concern. Trevor's eyes widened at her appearance.

"You look... professional," he offered.

"I look like death's executive assistant," she said, flopping into a chair like her soul had given up. "And for the record, I would greatly appreciate it if we could all agree that last night never happened."

Mrs. Moreau set a glass of water and two painkillers in front of her. "What exactly are we pretending didn't happen? The part where you critiqued the mayor's son's 'confused mushroom' haircut, or the part where he actually asked Ren for your number afterwards?"

Deja nearly choked on her water. "I did not."

"You did," Mr. Moreau confirmed, not looking up from his newspaper.

"No," Deja said firmly, popping the painkillers. "That didn't happen. None of it happened. I came home early, perfectly sober, and went straight to bed. I have never worn a black dress in my life. I have never even seen a gala. What's a gala? Sounds made up."

Trevor snorted. "You're really going with gaslighting the entire household?"

"I prefer to think of it as collaborative fiction," Deja replied, massaging her temples. "Look, can we all agree that whatever embarrassing, undignified, possibly career-ending thing I did last night was just a shared hallucination? Perhaps a gas leak? Carbon monoxide poisoning is very common in wealthy households."

Mrs. Moreau placed a plate in front of Deja. On it was toast cut into the shape of a heart, with perfectly scrambled eggs in the center.

Deja stared. "Why does my breakfast look like it's about to propose to me?"