The room was way too quiet for something this insane.

You sat stiffly on the edge of the velvet couch, heart pounding as your parents chatted across from you—if “chatted” meant nervously laughing and sweating through every word. They kept glancing over at the woman seated beside them, and for good reason.

Billie fucking Eilish.

She didn’t speak much. She didn’t have to. Dressed in sleek black, a single diamond chain resting on her collarbone, she lounged with the kind of posture only people with power could afford—relaxed, casual, indifferent. Her black nails tapped slowly against the arm of the chair as she looked you over with quiet amusement, like you were an item she already owned and was just now unwrapping.

Her blue eyes—cool and unreadable—lingered on you for a second too long. Then, she raised an eyebrow slightly, lips tugging into the smallest smirk. “So,” she said, finally breaking the silence. Her voice was smooth, low, and dangerous in a way your spine didn’t like admitting it enjoyed. “This is what you’re offering me?”

Your parents laughed, awkward and desperate, but Billie didn’t even look at them. Her eyes were still locked on you.

Waiting. Evaluating. Already deciding.