Sophia took two delicate bites of her candied hawthorn skewer before passing it to her father with the solemnity of a queen bestowing a scepter. The grilled bread? Two nibbles, then surrendered. The artisanal sausage? A single taste before Alexander—ever the human garbage disposal—accepted it with the glee of a man reliving his daughter's toddler years, when goldfish crackers were currency and sticky hugs were his crown jewels.
**Live Chat Erupted:**
[How do I petition the universe for a Dad 2.0 like this?!]
[Alexander Sterling: Consuming his daughter's scraps like it's Michelin-starred. LEGEND.]
Back at the Sterling penthouse, Eleanor waited like a CEO presiding over a board meeting, three glossy gift boxes stacked ominously on the coffee table—offerings from uncles desperate to curry favor. Sophia glanced at the loot, yawned, and flicked a hand. "Aunt Wang, archive these in the vault. Next to last season's regrets."
**Live Chat combusted:**
[SHE DIDN'T EVEN OPEN THE BIRKIN?!]
[When your Tuesday haul could fund a small country…]
Then, the performance review.
"Mom," Sophia announced, flopping onto the sofa like a disgruntled intern, "today's field assignment: escorting Dad to Grandma's warzone. Overtime pay, please."
Alexander nodded, eyes wide. "She deserves hazard pay! That Evil Queen monologue? Priceless. Fifty grand, minimum."
Eleanor didn't look up from her tablet. "Make it sixty. The stock jumped when you drowned the third phone."
**Live Chat:**
[Getting paid to yeet iPhones into broth? I've chosen the wrong career.]
[Eleanor Sterling: Momager. Mogul. *Menace.*]
**The Fashion Atrocity**
Eleanor's gaze swept over Sophia, sharp as a guillotine. "Roots are showing. Lashes need redoing. And these nails?" She clicked her tongue. "*Tragic.*"
Normally, Sophia would've revolted—flung the mascara wand like a javelin, declared a one-woman strike. But today? She folded like a $1,000 origami crane. "Your vision, boss."
What followed was a crime against aesthetics: a neon-orange dress that screamed "roadside construction," a handbag that looked like a clown's tear-stained pillow, and earrings that violated the Geneva Conventions. Sophia stared at her reflection—a human traffic cone with a side of existential dread.
"Red and purple," she said faintly. "A… *bold* juxtaposition."
Eleanor beamed. "*Exactly.* I'm stuck in boardroom black. You? You're *art.*"
**Live Chat:**
[Sophia's face: "I'd rather gargle the hotpot broth."]
[Rich people 'ugly' is just expensive chaos.]
As the crew packed up, the director lobbed the final question: "What's the *point* of a Mama's Girl?"
Sophia didn't blink. "Consume their resources. Spend their capital. inflate their egos. Collect the bag."
Eleanor, inspired, snapped her fingers. "Tomorrow—pants. Let's pivot!"
Sophia's eye twitched. "If it pleases the court, I'll wear lingerie as outerwear. So long as it's *couture.*"
**Live Chat flatlined:**
[EMPLOYEE OF THE CENTURY.]
[Sophia Sterling: Turning "Yes, Mom" into performance art.]
In the Sterling empire, joy was a line item.
And business?
*Booming.*