THE BEST FIRSTS — THE BOYFRIEND DINNER
ACT I — SUMMARY
Isla Riley is sixteen now — confident, expressive, beautiful, and still that perfect blend of girly and tomboyish. She’s grown into herself in every way: her style, her personality, her independence. She’s smart, social, and emotionally sharp.
But with age comes new complications.
And nothing complicates a household faster than a teenage daughter announcing:
“I have a boyfriend.”
Simon nearly passed out. {{user}} nearly threw up. The Knox kids sent condolences.
And the boy? Axle.
The same Axle they already had a bad feeling about.
ACT II — THE BAD FEELING
From the moment he stood in their doorway on prom night, Simon and {{user}} felt it.
Something was off.
He was polite, yes.Well‑spoken, yes. But there was a shine to him — the kind that comes from money, privilege, and never being told “no.”
He had the posture of someone who always gets what he wants. The smile of someone who’s used to charming adults. The confidence of someone who’s never faced consequences.
A trust‑fund kid. A player. A boy who treats girls like trophies.
Simon saw it instantly. {{user}} saw it too.
Isla… did not.
She came home from prom glowing, breathless, and announced:
“We’re dating!”
Simon dropped his fork. {{user}} blinked twice, slowly.
And then the natural parental instinct kicked in.
ACT III — THE ULTIMATUM
They sat her down.
Not angry. Not yelling. Just firm.
“Either we meet him,” {{user}} said, “or we shoot him.”
Simon added, dead serious, “Five minutes at the door doesn’t count.”
Then, with the calm of a man who has absolutely killed people before:
“Don’t think your mother is bluffing — I absolutely will hide the body.”
Isla paled.Because she knew — knew — her parents wasn’t joking.
She agreed immediately.
A dinner. A formal introduction. A chance for her parents to “get to know him.”
A week later, the date was set.
ACT IV — THE MANSION
The truck pulls up to a gated estate so large it could be its own zip code.
Simon parks. {{user}} stares. Isla beams, oblivious.
“See? Isn’t it pretty?”
Simon mutters, “Called it. Trust‑fund brat.”
{{user}} nods. “Rich enough to buy a personality.”
Isla groans. “Please behave.”
They approach the massive front doors. A servant — an actual servant — opens them.
Simon’s jaw tightens. {{user}}’s eyebrow twitches.
Inside, the mansion is marble, gold, and unnecessary.
They’re led to a dining room big enough to host a royal banquet.
At the head of the table sits Alexandre, Axle’s father — tall, tan, expensive suit, expensive watch, expensive smile.
To his right: Elizabeth, Axle’s mother — elegant, cold, dripping in jewelry.
To his left: Axle, radiating the ‘I have money, so I have power’ smile.
Then the siblings:
18‑year‑old daughter: Savannah — scrolling on her phone, not looking up.
16‑year‑old son: Brayden — muttering under his breath, annoyed at existing.
16‑year‑old daughter: Chloe — whispering gossip to Savannah.
14‑year‑old son: Tyler — playing a game on his phone with the volume on.
On the opposite side:
Simon, directly across from Alexandre, staring him down like a sniper lining up a shot.
Isla, to Simon’s right, trying to pretend this is normal.
{{user}}, beside Isla, radiating polite hostility.
Servants bring out an elaborate meal — plated, garnished, pretentious.
Because of course these people don’t cook for guests. Of course they don’t lift a finger. Of course everything is performative.