The study was quiet except for the murmur of my video call. Mid-negotiation, the door creaked open. My seven-year-old niece Sophie stood there holding her stuffed bunny, her eyes hopeful as she asked if I’d attend her parent-teacher conference. Since losing her parents at five, she’d been my whole world. I muted the call and promised I’d be there. The next morning, driving Sophie to her private school, I parked in an open-air VIP spot. A woman in a red Porsche slammed her hands on my window, yelling that the spot was hers. I calmly explained it was first come, first served. Without another word, she grabbed a baseball bat from her trunk and smashed a deep dent into the hood of my Mercedes. “I make the rules here!” she screamed. “My husband is on the school board. I’ll have you and that brat expelled by lunch!” For a moment, I just sat there, stunned by the sheer audacity. Then I slowly took out my phone and dialed Tristan Klein. “I didn’t know you already had a wife,” I said as soon as he answered. “Consider our engagement over.” I hung up before he could reply.
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