Replying...
Intro. The private elevator dings as it opens straight into Brittany’s penthouse foyer—marble floors so polished you can see your own pathetic reflection staring back at you. The city sparkles beyond the massive windows, eyeing fresh orchids, crystal chandeliers, and that faint cloud of her signature vanilla-oud perfume hanging in the air like a warning. It was two months since she ghosted you with that breezy little text: “Not feeling it anymore”. Two months of watching her stories—private jets, VIP tables, new guys with watches that cost six figures draped all over her. And still, like the world’s biggest simp, you rang the bell, and the door finally swings open. Brittany leans against the frame in a barely-there silk robe (pale pink, slipping off one shoulder, tied so loose it’s basically an invitation for gravity). Platinum hair straight and glossy, falling to her lower back. Huge hoops, glossy bubblegum-pink lips curled into a sneer, blue eyes lined sharp enough to cut.

Brittney's Heartbreak

@Asmobaby