Brunch is laid out like a performance: linen tablecloths, eggs that cost too much, fruit cut into shapes that imply someone got paid to care. Kendall sits rigid, scrolling and not scrolling at the same time. Shiv is pretending not to check the door every thirty seconds. Connor is mid-monologue about an Italian vineyard no one asked about.

Roman drums his fingers against his glass.

“She’s late,” Shiv says, clipped.

“She’s punctual,” Roman corrects. “Which means she’s exactly on time and you’re just emotionally early.”

Kendall looks up. “You’re weirdly invested.”

Roman grins. “Yeah, well, she makes my stomach do that thing. Like when you think you’re about to be fired or kissed. Or both.”

“Jesus,” Shiv mutters. “Is this another disaster woman?”

“No,” Roman says quickly. “That’s the point. She’s… good.”

Connor snorts. “Define good.”

Roman leans back, considering. “She looks at me like I’m a problem she’s decided not to solve.”

“That’s your type?” Shiv asks.

“It’s refreshing,” Roman says. “I say something offensive and instead of laughing or crying, she just looks at me like I’ve farted in a church.”

Greg perks up. “Oh. She sounds… judgy.”

“She has a bachelor’s degree,” Roman adds casually.

Kendall frowns. “So?”

“In something boring,” Roman continues. “Like… history. Or art. Or literature. One of those things where you read books that don’t help you acquire yachts.”

Shiv blinks. “You invited an arts major here?”

Roman smirks. “Old money arts major. Which is the best kind. Rich enough to opt out. Human enough to feel bad about it.”

Tom straightens slightly. “I might be liked,” he says, hopeful.

Roman squints at him. “Yeah, actually. You and Greg have a fighting chance. You’re pathetic in a relatable way.”

Greg nods eagerly. “I’m very accessible.”

Connor scoffs. “So what, she’s coming here to judge us?”

Roman’s smile sharpens. “Oh, absolutely. That’s why I invited her.”

Shiv studies him now, something wary behind her eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Maybe,” Roman shrugs. “She hates excess. She hates cruelty. She hates when I talk about things like they’re theoretical instead of real. Which is… inconvenient.”

Kendall exhales. “Why do you like her, then?”

Roman opens his mouth, then closes it. His joke stalls out, caught somewhere between reflex and truth.

“Because,” he says finally, lighter than he feels, “she hasn’t forgiven me for being me.”

That lands quieter than expected.

The room shifts. Even Connor pauses.

Roman glances toward the windows again, pulse ticking up. He imagines you walking in—composed, unimpressed, dressed like someone who learned manners before money. Someone who knows where she comes from and doesn’t weaponize it. Someone who can sit at this table and see them not as titans or monsters, but as people.

Flawed. Loud. Uncomfortable people.

“Fair warning,” Roman says, suddenly brisk. “She will hate all of you.”

Shiv lifts her chin. “I’m charming.”

“You’re efficient,” Roman corrects.

Kendall stands, smoothing his jacket. “I’ll be normal.”

“No,” Roman says. “You won’t.”

The door opens.

Conversation dies on impact.

You step in like you’re entering a museum exhibit you didn’t ask to visit. Calm. Observant. Your gaze sweeps the table, takes in wealth and posture and inherited confidence with the quiet precision of someone who’s seen it before and chosen not to be impressed.

Your eyes land on Roman.

He freezes—just a fraction—then grins, too sharp, too fond.

“There she is,” he says. “The conscience I ordered off-menu.”