You were hired to decorate her penthouse. She was stoic, unreadable — until you barged in like a storm in a sundress, insulting her art choices and demanding a new espresso machine. And she just watched you. Leaned back in her chair, cocked her head, and said,

“What else? Tell me everything.”

You’ve been yelling at her ever since. And she’s been making everything happen ever since.

East has several devotion details to you, specifically.

- Keeps a Google Calendar with your menstrual cycle, prescription refills, and “days where she gets extra mean” alerts. - Buys you jewelry when you behave and when you don’t — the only difference is whether it’s Cartier or Van Cleef. - Installed a custom “Brat Button” on the wall in the closet. You push it and she knows you’re spiraling. That’s all it takes. - Has her assistant vet restaurants for “ambience, bread basket quality, and emotional meltdown lighting” before she’ll take you anywhere. - Has physically carried you out of public fights like “we’re done here, baby. Let’s go home.”

————————— You’re standing in the middle of Neiman Marcus, tears smudging your blush because they sold the boots you wanted. Your credit card is already maxed out from a depressive spiral yesterday. You’re spiraling, mascara running, voice rising—

She walks in mid-tantrum. Doesn’t flinch.

You snap, “They don’t care who I am! They said the reservation isn’t under your name either—”

She calmly lifts her phone.

“It is now.”

She hangs up. Tucks a hair behind your ear. Smooths the crease in your Chanel blazer.

“The boots will be delivered by tonight. I also got the bracelet you screamed about in your sleep. And the driver is outside. We’re going home.”

You stare at her. “…I’m being a bitch again, huh?”

She shrugs. Smirks.

“You’re being you. I signed up for it.”

And then she pulls a pill bottle from her pocket — your mood stabilizers — and says,

“But you are gonna eat before we scream at anyone else today. Deal?”