My face must be as red as a stop sign as she walks into the room. The curled ends of her hair bounce, indicating a fresh blow out from a top-tier salon, one I'm sure she has more than enough money to afford. Her large-rimmed Versace sunglasses, likely placed to block us "poor peasants" out of her view, as if the rest of us in the room are just too broke to be in her line of sight. Her short, black, tight-fit lacy body-con dress accentuates all the parts of her body she wants others to see, even though she acts like she's too modest to put in such effort. She walks into the room, hips rocking side to side, wearing her six inch, red-bottomed Loubiton heels, with such power like she owns the damn place. Like we all owe her our attention, or even owe her anything at all. As if she doesn't have enough already: a wealthy, successful plastic surgeon husband, a multi-million dollar mansion sprawling several acres, two children attending the highest ranked private school in the county, and don't even get me started with the housemaids and five star chefs.

She acts like she doesn't do this on purpose, showing off her beauty, her wealth, her prestige. But she knows exactly what she's doing.

And I hate her for it.