The $100,000 transfer? A mere afternoon stipend—Sophia's "hardship fund" for enduring the grueling task of existing gloriously.
Alexander consulted his Patek Philippe. "Darling, time for the evening carb-loading ritual!"
Every morsel Sophia had consumed since infancy bore her father's fingerprints—hand-rolled dumpling pleats, broth simmered for 72 hours, even the artisanal soy sauce brewed in their basement. When she'd left to pursue acting, Alexander's world dimmed—his Michelin-starred meals replaced by sad takeout containers left uneaten in her empty suite.
Now, as Sophia declared herself a "full-time luxury daughter," Alexander's purpose reignited like a supernova.
The split-screen contrast was brutal:
Hotel GM: "I haven't seen my kids awake in three weeks."
Physics Professor: "Grading 300 midterms tonight. Pray for me."
Isabella Montgomery: "Method-acting" hunger by chewing ice cubes between takes.
Sophia Sterling: Lounging in cashmere loungewear, lobbing truffle fries at her father's apron. "Dad! The duck confit needs more gold leaf!"
The director, hypnotized by the Sterling kitchen's copper pans, dared to ask: "What's the… workload for this 'career'?"
Sophia snorted. "Brutal. I have to exist 24/7. Exhausting, really."
Live Chat:
[HER EXISTENCE IS A TALENT.]
[SWITCHING MAJORS TO 'PROFESSIONAL TRUST FUND BABY']
Dinner: A Symphony of Gluttony
The 12-seat mahogany table groaned under Alexander's creations: black truffle bao buns, abalone so tender it wept, and a "Buddha Jumps Over the Wall" stew containing ingredients worth a Honda Civic.
Eleanor was Zooming into dinner from Dubai, her face pixelated on a tablet propped beside the bone china.
Alexander pulled out Sophia's chair with a flourish. "No more 'actress diets,' yes? Tonight, we feast like Mongol khans."
Sophia froze, fork hovering.
For years, she'd choked down kale smoothies and Instagrammed "cheat days" that were really 700-calorie allowances. At home, Alexander's feasts went cold as she picked at three bites before locking herself in the gym.
Tonight?
She attacked the duck confit like a woman possessed, grease glistening on her chin. "Holy shit—this is better than sex!"
Alexander's eyes misted. "Try the abalone! I smuggled it from a black-market diver in Hokkaido!"
"Illegal seafood tastes divine." Sophia moaned through a full mouth. "Acting's biggest lie? 'I eat whatever I want!' Bitch, I licked a quinoa grain once and gained two pounds!"
She pantomimed her old red-carpet interview voice: "Oh, I just love pizza!" then dropped to a whisper: "Translation: I hallucinated pepperoni for three days."
Live Chat Went Feral:
[SHE'S AIRING INDUSTRY SECRETS LIKE DIRTY LAUNDRY]
[WAIT ISABELLA LITERALLY SAID THE SAME THING TODAY—]
Meanwhile: Isabella's "Five-Bite" Ballet
Isabella's set finally broke for "dinner"—a performative display of cold sesame noodles.
"Live what you preach!" she chirped to cameras, chopsticks clinking. "I never diet!"
Five artful bites later, her assistant "spilled" green tea on the table. "Oops! Let's tour the prop warehouse!"
The feed cut as Isabella sprinted to her trailer, where a personal trainer waited with celery sticks and a guilt trip.
Viewers Noticed:
[Why'd they film a 'spill' but not the cleanup?]
[Sophia's stream: 'Actresses swallow five bites then mainline laxatives.']
[ISABELLA'S GETTING STOMACH PUMPED RN ISN'T SHE]
[Switching to Channel 5—Sophia's eating actual food!]
By dessert (gold-flake tiramisu), Sophia's viewers tripled to 50K.
Haters became stans.
Because in a world of Facetuned perfection, Sophia Sterling was the glorious dumpster fire they'd been craving—a nepo baby who weaponized her privilege into performance art.
As Alexander belted Figaro while hand-washing dishes, Sophia licked chocolate off her Cartier bracelet and grinned.
Fuck the script.
This was better than any Oscar.