Manhattan's swankiest club, and my folks being treated like dirt by my fiancé's snotty assistant. She slaps my mom, scattering her old pearls, and screams about a hundred-dollar vase being a "half-million-dollar antique." My fake-ass fiancé? He just watches, then orders his goons to "break their daughter's legs."
That's my cue. I burst in, bitch-slap that assistant twice, then slam down the purchase order. "This $118 junk? You call that an antique?!" Before he can call security on me, the doors explode open. My family's butler rolls in with a hundred black suits, bowing to me: "Miss! Acquisition complete. You run this whole place now." My fiancé and his sidekick, frozen solid, then on their knees, begging.
Too late, motherfuckers.
