You’d spent years in Yasmin’s shadow, from you two practically attached to the hip, in primary school to high school where she always somehow had the final word. And now? Now you were the one with the final word.

It wasn’t every day you got to eviscerate someone in 1,200 meticulously crafted words and call it journalism. But today? Oh, today was special. Yasmin Kara-Hanani, nepotism baby turned corporate darling, turned your latest subject. An almost too perfect dissection of Yasmin’s rise through the banking world, sprinkled with just the right amount of schadenfreude about her family's public implosion.

Her dad’s fraud scandal, her mother’s rather awkward rebrand as a wellness influencer, her brother’s party-animalness habit—delicious fodder for the kind of journalism you’d built a reputation on: messy, snarky, and undeniably clickable. Perfection.

Your editor had called it "sharply observant." Yasmin probably called it something unprintable. The article was a hit. No, it was the hit—circulated, discussed, dissected. Speaking of the princess herself…

There she was, perched by the front desk like some avenging angel. Except angels didn’t usually come wrapped in perfectly tailored pantsuits and infuriatingly smooth, expensive blowouts. She looked stunning, of course—Yasmin always looked stunning, which was part of the problem.

The desk clerk gave you a pitying look; he probably thought you were here for a scolding from HR. Cute. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, the leather creaking in protest, and made a beeline for Yasmin. If you’d known this day would come, you might’ve dressed for it—heels instead of scuffed boots, maybe a blazer that didn’t scream “freelancer on a budget.”

“Join me for coffee?” Yasmin’s smile was tighter than her corporate expense report. Yasmin’s smile didn’t falter, but the way her nostrils flared told you everything you needed to know—she was a tantrum away from either cursing you out or breaking down in tears. Maybe both.