ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6: ᴅɪɴɴᴇʀ, ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪꜱʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ

Later that night, Deja was in her room when her stomach growled like it was auditioning for a horror movie soundtrack.

"Lawd, I'm starving," she muttered, making her way downstairs. "If rich people don't keep good snacks, what's even the point of being rich?"

The mansion was eerily quiet, just the soft hum of expensive appliances and the gentle tick of what was probably an antique grandfather clock that cost more than her old apartment building. As she approached the massive kitchen, she caught sight of warm light spilling from another room.

She peeked around the corner and saw them—Trevor, her mother, and her father—all seated at an enormous dining table that could've hosted the Last Supper with room for plus-ones. The table was set with the kind of china that people probably inherited and never actually used, crystal glasses that sparkled under the chandelier, and enough silverware to confuse a culinary school graduate.

Her mother spotted her first. "Deja," she called, her voice as cold as the marble floor beneath Deja's bare feet. "We weren't expecting you to join us."

"I wasn't expecting to be invited," Deja quipped, striding into the room with a confidence that seemed to annoy her father to no end. She took a seat at the table, her eyes scanning the lavish spread of food. "But since I'm already here, I might as well eat."

In the book, they never invite Deja to dinner, she thought. They always made her eat alone in her room like some kind of Cinderella without the cute mice friends.

An awkward silence fell as she sat down. Her mother's eyes widened slightly, and her father cleared his throat. All three exchanged meaningful glances that might as well have been a full conversation.

"What?" Deja finally asked, breaking the silence. "Do I have something on my face?"

"No..." Her mother said.

Deja looked at the spread before her—Wagyu beef, lobster tails, truffle risotto, and an assortment of vegetables prepared in ways that made them unrecognizable. She loaded her plate and began eating, hyperaware of the silence around her.

This is so awkward. Eating in silence? Goodness. These people really don't know how to act normal, do they?

Trevor cleared his throat dramatically. "So, Deja... lovely weather we're having."

Deja paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "Are you seriously talking about the weather right now? It's literally evening."

"I—well, I just thought—"

"The weather? Really? Not the company stocks, not Dominique's latest plot, but the WEATHER?"

Trevor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I was just trying to make conversation."

"Well, try harder," Deja muttered, shoving a forkful of risotto into her mouth.

No wonder this family fell apart in the book. They've got the conversational skills of a brick wall. Another excruciating silence followed, broken only by the sound of silverware against fine china.

Her mother finally spoke up, her voice dripping with forced casualness. "So, Deja dear, how are things going with Mr. Zuo?"

Deja shrugged, not looking up from her plate. "Fine, I guess."

"Just fine?" her mother pressed, eyebrows raised. "Your engagement to the CEO of NexTech Solutions is just... fine?"

"Yep," Deja replied, popping the 'p' sound at the end. "It's whatever."

What's the point of getting attached? He's going to leave me for Dominique anyway. Not that I care—I'm just here for that $20 million payout.

Her mother suddenly choked on her water, coughing violently. "Mother!" Trevor exclaimed, half-rising from his seat. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, pressing a napkin to her lips. "I'm—I'm fine," she gasped, her eyes never leaving Deja's face.

Her father, clearly desperate to change the subject, gestured to a silver platter. "Deja, have some more fish. It's imported from—"

"But I'm allergic to fish," Deja interrupted.

Everyone at the table froze. Her father's hand remained suspended in mid-air. Her mother's eyes widened to the size of saucers. Trevor looked like he'd just seen a ghost.

Wow. You guys never cared for Deja. It was clearly in the book. Can't even remember your own biological daughter is allergic to fish. That's cold, even for villains.

Her father slowly lowered his hand. "I... apologize, Deja. I must have forgotten."

"Whatever," Deja said, pushing her chair back and standing up. "I'm going to bed. This is just too weird, even for me."

"But you've barely eaten," her mother protested weakly.

"Lost my appetite. Funny how that happens when you realize nobody at the table actually knows anything about you." Deja strutted out of the dining room, throwing over her shoulder, "Good night, I guess."

That was the most awkward dinner of my LIFE, she thought as she climbed the stairs. These people are worse at family bonding than a cactus is at giving hugs.

Back in her bedroom, Deja collapsed face-first onto her bed, the plush pillows muffling her groan. And before she realised she was already dozing off.

When Deja opened her eyes, her room was dark. She blinked in confusion, glancing at the clock on her nightstand. "7:00 PM?! What the—"

A soft knock at the door interrupted her. "Come in," she called, still disoriented.

A maid entered and bowed. "Miss Deja, it's time for you to get ready for your dinner with Mr. Zuo."

I slept the WHOLE day? How is that even possible? Deja thought, rubbing her eyes. Then realization dawned on her. Oh, right. Story logic. It's time for the next scene.

Deja sighed dramatically. "Great. Just great."

The maid bowed again and left as Deja trudged to her closet. She flung the doors open, scanning the designer clothes.

I need to make Ren hate me. What's the most inappropriate outfit I can possibly wear to a business dinner?

Before she could select anything, another knock came at the door. "Come in," Deja called. Her mother swept into the room, a garment bag draped carefully over her arm and a smile on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Deja, dear, I have the perfect outfit for you to wear tonight," she announced, laying the bag on the bed and unzipping it with a flourish.

Why is she giving me an outfit? Deja wondered suspiciously. She's never cared what I wore before.

Inside the bag was a dress that looked like it had been picked out by a committee of society snobs who had never met Deja. It was a monstrosity of lace and taffeta that screamed 'I'm trying too hard to impress people I don't even like.'

Deja stared at it, the memory suddenly clicking into place. In the original book, Dominique sabotaged this dress! It ripped right in front of Ren and his associates, and he was so embarrassed he broke off the engagement right there!

A slow, devious smile spread across Deja's face as she reached for the dress. "It's beautiful. Thank you, Mother."

Her mother's expression shifted suddenly, a flicker of alarm crossing her features. She snatched the dress back so quickly that Deja barely saw her move.

"Actually, darling," her mother said, clutching the dress to her chest, "on second thought, perhaps you should wear something from your closet. This—this dress needs some... alterations."

Alterations? More like a funeral shroud for my social life, Deja thought, watching her mother's retreating back with narrowed eyes.

"Alterations?" Deja repeated, reaching for the dress again. "No, it's fine. I'll wear it as is."

I'll embarrass myself, and Ren will definitely break off the engagement. Then I'm one step closer to that $20 million!

Her mother's face paled. "No!" she exclaimed, then composed herself. "I mean, no, dear. The dress is... broken. I need to fix it. Wear something from your closet instead."

Before Deja could protest further, her mother had rushed out of the room, taking the sabotaged dress with her.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," Deja muttered to herself, flipping through her closet. "Why did she take the dress? That was my ticket to freedom!"

She turned back to her closet, a wicked gleam in her eye. "If I can't wear that dress, I guess I'll wear something else to MAKE REN HATE ME! HA HA HA HA!"

Deja was deep in this bougie-ass closet, staring at racks of boring designer clothes like they personally offended her. "Ugh, where the hell is the fun stuff? Ain't no way Deja-from-this-world don't got one outfit with some disrespect in it," she grumbled, flipping through blazers and beige like it was punishment.

Then — like destiny, or petty Black girl magic — her hand landed on it.

A metallic gold mini dress with enough cutouts to get her banned from half the country clubs in this zip code. Paired right next to it? Leopard print thigh-high boots like it was just waiting for her.

Deja squinted at it. "...Now why the hell does other-me have this in here? Ain't she supposed to be corporate Barbie?" She side-eyed the ceiling like she was talking to God or whoever was watching. "Lowkey... this gotta be my guardian angel slidin' me gear for the mission. I see you, sis."

And just when she thought it couldn't get better — she spotted it.

A neon pink faux fur jacket. AND — this the kicker — a little box labeled "Hair Accessories".

She cracked it open and straight cackled.

Nothing but gold clips, rhinestones, little fake butterflies, and bold-ass words like "QUEEN" and "UNBOTHERED" in all caps.

"Oh yeah. Now you showin' out," Deja snorted, grabbing the clips like Infinity Stones. She went off on her afro — wild, glorious, defying gravity — and pinned about ten clips in it with zero restraint. Crooked? Maybe. Loud? Absolutely.

By the time she finished — dress on, boots laced, jacket thrown over her shoulders — Deja looked like a Black anime villain headed to ruin everybody's night.

She admired herself in the mirror.

"Business dinner finna meet bottle girl energy real quick," she grinned. "Hope they ready."