Sophia Sterling had an epiphany while watching her own filmography:
The greatest filial duty was not humiliating your parents in public.
Her "acting" made community theater look like Broadway.
IMDb Reviews: "We already work for oligarchs—must we watch their untalented spawn cosplay as artists too?"
After three glasses of Château Margaux, she reached her verdict:
Retirement. Effective immediately.
As the proverb goes: "If you can't stand the heat... maybe you shouldn't have crawled into the oven."
The moment she decided, Sophia kicked off her Louboutins and flopped onto the $200,000 couch in her mother's corner office. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Manhattan like a living painting—this was Sterling Tower, the family's 50-story monument to capitalism.
Her mother Eleanor? A self-made billionaire who turned steel mills into tech unicorns.
Her father Alexander? The original trophy husband—six-pack abs, Michelin-star cooking skills, and a PhD in medieval poetry.
Sophia? The human equivalent of a rare orchid—expensive to maintain and utterly useless.
She stared at the brass nameplate: Eleanor Sterling, CEO
"Mom..." she whispered to the empty office, "I finally understand."
"My Oscar-worthy performance was as an actress."
"My actual acting?" She winced. "War crime adjacent."
Her phone buzzed—Victoria Hart, her long-suffering agent.
"Sophia! Are you at Sterling Tower?"
"Wallowing in existential dread, why?"
"Don't move. I'm coming up."
The Agent Cometh
Thirty minutes earlier, Vic had received the text that made her reach for the Xanax:
Retiring. Cancel everything. -S
Managing celebrity brats was Vic's specialty, but Sophia Sterling made Mariah Carey look low-maintenance. Bursting into the CEO's sanctum, she found Sophia attempting ballet moves between Picassos.
It started beautifully—a swan-like arabesque.
Then—
CRASH
A 14th-century Ming vase became ceramic confetti.
Sophia blinked at the shards. "Well. Dance career's out."
Vic massaged her temples. "What's this retirement nonsense? We've got two Netflix series and—"
"Cancel them." Sophia flopped onto the couch like a discarded ragdoll. "Tell the studios I'll still fund their projects if they fire me."
Vic scrolled her tablet frantically. "We can reschedule the films, but Career Spotlight has a $5M penalty clause."
Sophia froze. The show she'd begged to join—the same platform where Isabella Montgomery held court as America's Sweetheart.
Memory flooded back—her past self scheming to upstage Isabella through terrible acting. Current Sophia shuddered.
"Vic..." She sat up slowly, eyes gleaming. "Does my contract specify which career I showcase?"
"Just that it must be a legitimate—"
"Perfect." Sophia's smile turned feline. "Update my application."
"To what?"
Sophia gestured at the destroyed vase, the gaming PC in the corner, the half-eaten truffle pizza.
"Professional Daughter. Full-time luxury lifestyle consultant."
Vic's pen hovered. "That's not a real—"
"Neither was 'Instagram model' before 2010," Sophia countered. "I'll be a trailblazer."
As Vic left to negotiate, Sophia spun in her mother's ergonomic chair. Finally—a role requiring zero talent beyond breathing and spending money.
Her phone lit up with a Google alert:
BREAKING: Sterling Heiress Announces New Career Path—"Daddy's Little Parasite"
Sophia smirked. Let the games begin.