Daphne
Today was one of those days. The real kind. Because today was about family. And somehow, it’s always family that reminds Daphne: she’s twenty-five, unemployed, practically unemployable. Maybe addicted to drugs. Blacklisted from Soho House, The Holloway, and now the San Vicente Bungalows.
She blows another line, the chalky drip catching in her throat. Was it a mistake, she wonders, bringing Tina to her parents’ house? She’d known the risks; she’d even spelled them out on the drive over: “If I introduce you, keep it short. Surface-level only. Don’t ask questions. Especially not with Kathleen. You go deeper, you drown.”
Tina didn’t say much, except for one pointed question: “So… where’s the money from?”
There it was. That little gold-digger glint. After years of picking the wrong friends, Daphne could spot it instantly.
She gave Tina the CliffsNotes: “My great-great-grandfather was an old-school Hollywood producer. My mom’s a venture capitalist. Dad does real estate, which is family code for: drinks wine, plays golf, and sits on a few advisory boards he barely pretends to care about.”
Daphne watched Tina take it all in as the car pulled through the gates of the ivy-covered Tudor mansion, past rows of trimmed hedges, and eased to a stop beside the antique fountain.
Inside, Kathleen played the hostess in Chanel, gliding through the marble-floored hall, the Grand Matriarch act in full force, armed with cutting smiles and backhanded compliments.
And Sam, her dad, the birthday boy? He played his usual part—the affable husband, pouring drinks and laughing at bad jokes while Kathleen ran the show. She pulled the strings. He looked the other way. That was their unspoken contract.
“Happy birthday, Dad,” Daphne said, leaning in for a hug.
“I’m glad you could make it, sweetheart,” he replied, his eyes drifting over Tina, who watched the exchange in cool detachment.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Daphne lasted fifteen minutes before she ordered a drink. She wasn’t going to. Not today. But being here, surrounded by her family and all their snobbish, hypocritical friends, was too much. So she dropped a little GHB into her wine. It helped—until she caught her cousins, Dahlia and CoCo, snickering behind her back a split second after smiling sweetly to her face.
Until the Katzmans gave her the once-over, unimpressed by her lack of a real job.
Until Candy Spelling, all saccharine warmth, greeted her like an old friend, but Daphne knew better. Tori had once admitted, in a rare flash of resentment, that Candy saw her as a washed-up wannabe influencer tramp.
Then Wendy Finerman offered her a Xanax—half in jest, half in pity—and called her Darlene. Twice.
But the real gut punch came from Kathleen. Always Kathleen. “Why do I even want my one and only daughter here today?” she said, lifting her martini with theatrical indifference. “I’ll tell you why: to remind us all why we keep our distance in the first place.”
Daphne said nothing. She’d learned the best defense was no defense. A therapist had once called these episodes “extinction bursts”—emotional flare-ups that fizzled out faster when ignored. Let her ridicule Daphne all she wanted. Eventually, she’d tire herself out.
And then, like she was already bored, Kathleen’s gaze slid to Tina at the bar. “Who is that girl? Where did you meet her?”
Daphne tried to brush it off, but Kathleen pressed.
“Do you even know what she does?”
“I dunno,” Daphne said, barely shrugging. “Something with voiceovers, I think?”
“She’s a down-market harlot playing dress-up as a high-class hooker,” Kathleen hissed, eyes still fixed on Tina. “And even that’s generous.”
“What are you talking about, mother? How would you even know Tina?”
“Because when you live at the top, you learn to recognize the bottom-feeders. That vermin isn’t like us. And don’t let it give you too much confidence, but she’s not like you, either.”
Daphne grimaced. She hadn’t expected Tina to even register on Kathleen’s radar. Maybe her mom mistook her for someone else? Or just cruelty for cruelty’s sake, her mom’s favorite sport when it came to outsiders.
And yet, Daphne couldn’t shake it. On the drive back to 222 Corpse Flower, she kept sneaking glances at Tina. She dressed her down, picturing her as someone else—smeared lipstick, fishnets, a cheap keyhole top with her boobs spilling out. Like one of those aging hookers who still prowled Hollywood Boulevard when Daphne was a kid. The image should’ve been ridiculous. But somehow… it almost fit.
Something about the girl just doesn’t add up, Daphne tells herself back at home, chasing the thought with another line of coke. And yet, she doesn’t want to push Tina away—she wants to peel her apart.