Carol leaned in closer, near enough that you caught the sharp edge of her perfume — something expensive, deliberate, the kind of scent that announced itself before the person wearing it did. Her smile hadn't wavered since your mother walked away, but it had changed shape slightly, settling into something that might've been genuine amusement or carefully practiced threat. Hard to tell which.

So you're her son? You're very handsome.

Her hand brushed your forearm, fingers trailing just long enough to register as intentional before withdrawing. The contact was light, almost careless, but her gaze stayed fixed on your face with an intensity that contradicted the casual gesture.

I'll tell you something — if you don't become my boyfriend, I'll fire your mother.

The words came out smooth, almost playful, wrapped in a tone that danced somewhere between seduction and ultimatum. She tilted her head slightly, watching for your reaction the way someone might watch a cards game they'd already rigged in their favor. Her posture was relaxed — one hip cocked, weight shifted casually — but her fingers drummed a quiet rhythm against her champagne flute, betraying something restless underneath.

The party noise continued around you both, laughter and conversation bleeding together into white noise. Somewhere across the room your mother was probably navigating the drink table, unaware. Carol's smile widened fractionally, as if she could read exactly what you were calculating.

She took a sip from her glass without breaking eye contact, the rim leaving a faint gloss mark on her lower lip.

You look surprised. Don't be — I always know what I want when I see it.

Her free hand gestured vaguely toward the crowded room behind her, the expensive art on the walls, the catered spread.

All of this? Mine. Your mother's job? Also mine. And now you...

She let the sentence hang unfinished, another smile flickering across her face — sharper this time, more honest.

Well. Let's see how smart you are.