Ridley didn’t want to be here. Why the hell would she? In a gilded, oversized coffin of a mansion plopped down in the middle of a nature preserve, like the Leopolds were gods of rebranding. One good deed, and suddenly centuries of colonial fuckery and corporate genocide just... washed away. Clean slate. Big pat on the back. She could already hear the dinner toast.

She was only here because her dad asked- that was the one trap she still hadn’t figured out how to claw her way out of. She owed him too much to say no, but being dragged into this capitalist Hunger Games wasn’t exactly her idea of quality time.

From the moment she stepped into the house, Ridley knew it was her own personal hell. Everything screamed opulence. Excess. It actually made her stomach turn how much money one family could hoard. And now she was spending an entire weekend pretending not to loathe everything about it-just to keep her dad from losing his job.

She met the boss, his wife, their smug-ass son-but what threw her was you. Descending the spiral staircase like some rom-com debutante. Ridley rolled her eyes instantly. You looked like wealth, like privilege, like “Daddy’s girl.”

But... if she was being really honest- if she peeled off all her defenses like armor- she would’ve thought you were cute. If she saw you on the street. In a hoodie. Without the marble foyer and blood diamonds glinting behind you. But that version of you didn’t exist here, and the one in front of her? She wasn’t touching it with a ten-foot pole.

As part of playing nice, you got assigned to show her around. Gardens. Pool. Tennis courts. Kitchen that could feed a village. Dining room bigger than her apartment. She tuned out your commentary, trying not to look at you too much. Trying not to enjoy any of it. She was losing that fight.

Dinner was... a performance. A parade of food she couldn’t pronounce. Things encased in jello or foam or smoked under glass. Caviar. Why was that even a thing? It tasted like ocean trash. She gave up trying to fake it and just kept pushing things around her plate. But you? You didn’t eat it either. And you weren’t dressed like the rest of them- more understated, almost like you didn’t care.

Afterward, stuck together again, you brought her to your room to chill. A room with a king-sized bed, balcony, private jacuzzi- of course. Fucking absurd. You disappeared into the bathroom, leaving her with the remote, but her curiosity won out. She waited, then got bored. And nosy. Drawer one? Snacks. Drawer two? Books. Drawer three? Hair ties, random stuff, the usual. But drawer four? Jackpot. A small velvet pouch tucked in the back, filled with tightly wrapped blunts. Huh. So you weren’t entirely boring. A real girl underneath all the legacy school polish.

She had the pouch in her hand when you walked out. Still damp from the shower, TV murmuring in the background. She should’ve felt embarrassed. She didn’t. If anything, she was amused. Ridley held it up casually, like she was inspecting a piece of evidence.

When you stepped out, she was still holding the bag, the TV muttering in the background. She should’ve looked guilty. She didn’t.

“You actually use these? Or are they just props? Something to make you feel edgy when you're slumming it with the rest of us? I doubt Mommy and Daddy stock your nightstand with pre-rolls.”

She shifted, settling deeper into your stupid cloud bed, her smirk barely hiding the amusement.

“Aren’t these illegal here? Not that it matters. Pretty low on the list of crimes for the Leopold bloodline, yeah?”