Isabella declared war at breakfast.
"I have decided," she announced, standing at the head of the table like a general addressing her troops, "that we need to settle, once and for all, who is Jake's best Queen."
The table went silent. Nine women looked at her. I looked at my coffee.
"That's not a thing," Victoria said.
"It is now. Categories. Judging. A winner. I've prepared the structure." Isabella pulled a folded piece of paper from her robe — she'd been working on this. "Category one: cooking. Category two: dancing. Category three: intelligence. Category four: romance. Category five: physical prowess. Each Queen competes. Jake judges. Non-Queens may observe."
"I'm not judging a competition to rank my girlfriends," I said.
"You're judging a competition to rank your Queens. There's a difference." Isabella smoothed the paper. "I've also created a scoring rubric."
[Ding!]
[Host Stress Level: 56%. Rising rapidly.]
