ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 7: ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴇ... ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ

Downstairs, her mother — elegant, poised, probably sipping tea out of a glass worth somebody rent — turned around and screamed like Deja walked in butt naked.

"DEJA MONROE! Lord have mercy! What—what is this? WHAT are you wearing?!"

Deja did a slow, petty little spin, letting the pink fur flare out like she was on a runway. "Issa look, ain't it? Thought I'd give the board at NexTech a lil' razzle dazzle."

"These are executives, Deja. Founders. Billionaires. Old money! Not— not whatever... whatever this is!" her mother's voice was rising, but Deja couldn't help it. Her thoughts had become a runaway train, and she had zero intention of jumping off.

Deja shrugged like it was nothing. "Sounds like they could use some flavor then." She snatched the car keys off the table. "Would hate to show up basic."

Her mother lunged — heels clicking, Chanel perfume trailing behind her — but Deja dipped left on her like she was running plays.

"Deja, be serious! This marriage could secure our future! Our legacy!"

Deja, already halfway out the door, hollered over her shoulder, "Girl, bye! Legacy gon' have to catch me later!"

Behind her, her mother was full-on spiraling — snatching her phone up. "Trevor! Trevor, pick up this phone right now! Your sister has lost her entire mind!"

But Deja was already gone. Operation: Make Ren Hate Me was officially in motion.

Deja whipped her mother's luxury sedan through the streets like she was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Rich Folk Edition. The GPS guided her to one of those restaurants where the menu doesn't even bother listing prices—if you gotta ask, you can't afford it.

"Look at me now," Deja muttered, admiring her reflection in the rearview mirror. Her purple-streaked updo was holding strong, and her makeup was giving main character energy. "Bout to show these rich folks what a real hot mess looks like."

She tossed the valet her keys with a wink that made the poor man blush from his collar to his hairline. "Take care of her, cutie. She cost more than your yearly salary."

 ────•⋅⊰༻♥༺⊱⋅•────

The restaurant was all crystal chandeliers and white tablecloths, with waiters so stiff they looked like they'd break if they smiled. Deja sashayed through the entrance, her leopard print thigh-highs and metallic gold mini dress creating a visual disruption in the sea of conservative business attire.

The maître d' looked like he'd just swallowed a lemon. "Miss, I believe there may be a—"

"Nah, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be," Deja cut him off, scanning the room until she spotted Ren's table. "My fiancé's waiting on me."

And there they were—Ren, looking fine as ever in a tailored suit that probably cost more than a car payment, surrounded by a table of serious-looking executives. And of course, Trevor and Dominique had somehow materialized there too.

Perfect. My whole hater squad in one place. Time to put on a show.

Deja strutted toward the table, putting an extra swing in her hips like she was walking a runway. The conversation at the table died as heads turned one by one.

Trevor's eyes bulged so wide they looked ready to pop out and roll across the floor. "DEJA!" he hissed, half-rising from his seat. "What are you WEARING?!"

Dominique's reaction was more controlled, but the flash of confusion in her eyes was unmistakable. Her gaze darted to Deja's outfit, then back to Ren, clearly trying to process why Deja wasn't wearing the sabotaged dress.

"Hey, baby!" she exclaimed, her voice too loud for the room's acoustics. She sauntered over to him and planted a smacking kiss on his cheek, leaving a perfect burgundy lip print. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was cray-cray!"

Did I just say 'cray-cray' to a room full of board members? Lord, forgive me, she thought, suppressing a laugh.

Ren stood slowly, his expression unreadable as he took in her appearance. "Deja," he said, his deep voice sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. "You've... arrived."

"Sure did!" Deja beamed, flopping into the empty chair beside him. She turned to the table of stunned executives and flashed them her brightest smile. "What's good, gentlemen? Y'all look like you need a drink. I know I do!"

She grabbed a full glass of champagne from the table and downed it in one go. "Whew! That hit the spot. Let me get another one of those."

Trevor looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. Dominique, ever the actress, quickly recovered and leaned forward with her sugary smile.

"Cousin Deja, you look... festive," she said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "I was just telling Mr. Zuo and his associates about the charity gala I'm organizing."

"That's nice, boo," Deja said dismissively, signaling a waiter. "Hey, handsome! Can a girl get some more bubbly over here? And keep 'em coming!"

One of the older executives, a man with silver hair and an expensive watch, chuckled. "You certainly brought some energy to our dinner, Miss Moreau."

"That's what they pay me for!" Deja winked, then paused. "Oh wait, they don't pay me at all. Family business and all that jazz." She threw a pointed look at Trevor, who was silently fuming.

To Deja's surprise, another executive leaned forward with interest. "So, Miss Moreau, Mr Zuo tells us you have some innovative ideas about expanding NexTech's market share in emerging economies."

Deja almost choked on her champagne. What now? Ain't no way I'm supposed to know about business stuff.

But something strange happened—knowledge seemed to flow into her mind unbidden, as if the real Deja's business acumen was suddenly accessible to her. "Well," she began, surprising herself, "if y'all really wanna make moves in those markets, you gotta stop with this one-size-fits-all approach. Each region has its own cultural context that affects how people interact with technology."

The executives nodded, looking genuinely interested. One of them pulled out a notebook. What is happening right now? Deja thought, bewildered. They supposed to be mad that I'm acting a fool, not taking notes!

She decided to double down on the inappropriate behavior. She kicked off her boots under the table and propped her bare feet up on an empty chair, grabbed another champagne flute, and spoke with her mouth full of expensive appetizers.

"Y'all need to get with the program," she declared, gesturing with a prawn. "Your UI is basic as hell—sorry, not sorry—and your data integration is giving very much 2015. My grandmama could code better, and she don't even know how to text."

Instead of being offended, the executives laughed appreciatively. One whispered to another, "She's brutally honest. Refreshing change in this industry."

Dominique's smile was becoming more strained by the second. "Cousin Deja has always been... unpredictable," she said, trying to regain control of the conversation. "I, on the other hand, believe in a more traditional approach to business partnerships."

"Traditional is just another word for boring," Deja shot back, now on her fourth glass of champagne and feeling the effects. "And baby, ain't nobody got time for boring in tech. You snooze, you lose."

Ren, who had been silently observing the entire time, had an odd look on his face—like he was trying to solve a complex puzzle.

Why won't this man just get disgusted already? Deja thought, frustrated. He's supposed to be all proper and uptight. Break up with me already!

Ren's eyebrows shot up slightly, but he said nothing. As the night progressed, Deja became increasingly drunk and increasingly outrageous. She told inappropriate jokes that somehow made the executives roar with laughter. She spilled details about NexTech's competitors that she shouldn't have known. She flirted harmlessly with the waitstaff.

And through it all, Trevor looked ready to explode, Dominique's perfect mask cracked with jealousy, and Ren... Ren just kept watching her with that same intense curiosity.

By the time dessert arrived, Deja was properly sloshed, slurring her words and occasionally breaking into snippets of songs. "I think," Ren finally said, standing and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, "it's time I took my fiancée home."

"Noooo," Deja protested, waving a spoon around dangerously. "We just gettin' to the good part!"

"Mr. Zuo," Dominique immediately stood up, all helpful concern, "please allow me to take Deja home. You're so busy, and it would be no trouble at all."

"That won't be necessary," Ren replied coolly, not even looking in her direction as he helped Deja to her feet. "She's my responsibility."

"But—" Dominique started.

"We're going to head out too," Trevor interrupted, looking like he'd aged ten years in one evening. "Come, Dominique. We'll go home together."

As Ren guided Deja toward the exit, she heard one of the executives say, "She's a firecracker! Where has Ren been hiding her all this time?"

This wasn't supposed to happen, Deja thought hazily as she stumbled alongside Ren. They were supposed to hate me. Why didn't they hate me?