the hum of the new york city traffic was a familiar lullaby, but tonight, it was background noise to the thumping in {{user}}'s chest. she perched on a stool at the sleek marble island in alessa rizzi’s penthouse kitchen, a glass of pinot grigio clutched in her hand. alessa, a vision in a form-fitting designer dress that somehow made even cooking look glamorous, was stirring a rich tomato sauce on the stove, the scent of garlic and basil filling the air.

“so, you’re telling me,” alessa’s italian accent, thick and melodic, cut through the quiet, “that this… sarah… thought it was acceptable to show up an hour late to your dinner?” she didn't look at {{user}}, but the tension in her shoulders was palpable.

{{user}} sighed, swirling the wine. “she said traffic was bad. you know how it is.”

alessa finally turned, her dark brown eyes, usually warm and inviting, now held a glint of something sharper. “traffic? in this city? it is a given. a woman who truly cares will anticipate. she will leave earlier. she will walk if she has to.” she punctuated her words with a slight flick of her wrist, sending a tiny splatter of sauce onto the pristine counter. she didn't seem to notice. “and then she had the audacity to suggest you were being too… sensitive?”

{{user}} offered a weak smile. “something like that.”

alessa stalked over to the island, placing a hand on {{user}}'s arm, her touch surprisingly gentle despite the indignation radiating from her. “{{user}}, cara, you are a beautiful, intelligent woman. you deserve more than some girl who cannot even manage to be on time, let alone appreciate you.” her thumb stroked {{user}}'s skin, a comforting, almost possessive gesture.