The amber glow of the Ottawa skyline bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting long, elegant shadows across the polished hardwood. Outside, the city was a hum of twilight activity—the distant rush of traffic on Wellington Street and the shimmering reflection of the Parliament buildings against the darkening river. Inside, however, the atmosphere was one of defiant relaxation.
Jessica lounged on her velvet sectional, a glass of chilled white wine sweating slightly on the marble coffee table. She had kicked off her designer heels an hour ago, leaving them discarded like fallen soldiers near the foyer. She was wrapped in a silk robe that cost more than some people's monthly rent, her dark hair tossed into a messy, effortless bun. She was the picture of modern success, a woman who had built a life on her own terms, in a city that moved at her pace.
The sharp trill of her phone broke the silence. She didn't need to look at the caller ID to know it was Sarah.
"Please tell me he was at least handsome," Sarah's voice exploded through the speaker the second Jessica swiped the screen. "Because if I set you up with a troll and a bore, I'll never forgive myself."
Jessica let out a long, weary sigh, reaching for her wine. "Handsome? Sure, if you like the 'statue of a Greek god with the personality of a stone' look. But Sarah, we need to talk about your definition of a 'good match.'"
"Oh no," Sarah groaned. "What happened? Did Marcus do the thing where he talks about his crypto portfolio for forty minutes?"
"Worse," Jessica said, standing up and pacing the length of her living room, her robe fluttering behind her. "Much, much worse. We were ten minutes into the appetizers—ten minutes!—when he leans in, looks me dead in the eye, and asks, 'So, Jessica, do you have a signature dish? What's your go-to Sunday roast?'"
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. "Okay... maybe he just likes food?"
"I thought so too," Jessica countered, her voice rising with indignant energy. "So I laughed it off. I told him the only thing I 'cook' is a reservation at Riviera or a very sophisticated bowl of cereal. I told him my washing machine is a mystery box that I outsource to the dry cleaners down the street. I thought it was a joke, Sarah. I thought we were bonding over being busy professionals."
"And?"
"And he stopped eating," Jessica said, throwing a hand up in the air as if Marcus were standing right there. "He put his fork down like I'd just confessed to a crime. He looked at me with this... this pitying disappointment. He actually asked me, 'How do you call yourself a woman if you don't know how to provide the basic comforts of a home?'"
"He did not," Sarah whispered, though there was a hint of hesitation in her tone.
"He did! And he didn't stop there. He launched into a full-blown lecture. Sarah, I was being 'schooled' in the middle of a five-star restaurant. He started going on about the 'natural order,' and how a woman's true value is found in her ability to nurture and maintain a household. He told me that my career was 'fine for now,' but that a real man needs a wife who can wash his shirts without shrinking them and keep a kitchen smelling like rosemary instead of takeout containers."
Jessica took a sharp sip of wine, her shoes clicking rhythmically on the floor as she paced. "He asked me what I bring to the table if I can't even do the basics. I told him I bring the table! I bought the table! I am the CEO of a marketing firm, I manage fifty employees, and I just closed a seven-figure deal, but apparently, because I don't know the setting for 'delicates,' I'm a failure as a female."
"Jess, look," Sarah said, her voice shifting into a softer, more cautious register. "Marcus is... he's traditional. A lot of guys are. Maybe he just phrased it poorly."
"Phrased it poorly? Sarah, what is wrong with men nowadays? They expect us to have the career, the body, the social life, and the intellectual capacity of a scholar, but then they want to come home to a 1950s housewife who's spent four hours scrubbing the baseboards. Who told them that knowing how to bleach a collar is the qualifying exam for being a wife?"
Jessica stopped at the window, looking out at the sprawling Ottawa lights. The city looked so modern, so progressive, and yet here she was, defending her right to not be a laundress.
"It's the entitlement," Jessica continued, her voice dropping to a hiss of frustration. "The idea that I am an incomplete puzzle because I don't fit into his little box of 'organized and traditional.' I'm a person, not a domestic appliance."
"I hear you," Sarah said slowly. "I really do. But Jess... maybe there's a middle ground? You're so independent, and that's amazing, but sometimes being 'traditional' isn't a bad thing. If you want to find a partner, a real man to settle down with, you might have to learn to do some of those things. Just so you don't miss out on a good man one day because you were too stubborn to learn how to roast a chicken."
Jessica froze, her grip tightening on her wine glass. "You're taking his side? You think I should 'audition' for the role of wife by practicing my folding techniques?"
"I'm just saying, the world is changing, but some values stay the same. A lot of successful men want that peace at home."
"Then they can hire a housekeeper," Jessica snapped, her eyes flashing. "I'm looking for a partner, not an employer. If a man's love for me is contingent on my ability to remove a grass stain, then he doesn't love me—he loves a service. I want someone who sees me. My spontaneity, my drive, my laughter. Not my ability to follow a recipe."
She stared at her reflection in the glass—the silhouette of a woman who had everything she ever dreamed of, yet was still being told she was missing the "essentials."
"I swear, Sarah," Jessica said, her voice weary but firm. "I pray I never, ever meet a man like that again. I'd rather be single in this penthouse forever than be a 'traditional' prize for some man who thinks my hands were only made for dishwater."
She hung up before Sarah could offer any more "practical" advice, the silence of the penthouse rushing back in. Jessica turned away from the view, her mind already racing. She needed a break. She needed to get away from the expectations of the city, the disastrous dates, and the lectures.
Maybe a trip to the countryside was exactly what she needed—a place where she could just breathe without anyone asking her what she had for dinner.