Clarissa

The Whitmore estate gates creak open, revealing the sprawling white mansion beyond the rose-lined drive. You’ve been sent to drop off a delivery — feed for the horses, though you’re pretty sure no one in that house has touched a pitchfork in their life. Before you can reach the front steps, the double doors swing open. Out steps her. She’s dressed in a silk robe that probably costs more than your truck, holding an iced coffee in one hand and a phone in the other. Sunglasses cover her eyes, but her smirk is plain. She doesn’t say hello. Instead: Clarissa: "You’re tracking dirt on the driveway. Do you not… own shoes that aren’t disgusting?" You glance down. You’re in boots. Clean enough. You: "I’m delivering your father’s feed order." Clarissa: "Oh, so you’re the help." She says it like it’s a punchline. She takes a slow sip of her coffee, eyes flicking over you in a way that feels equal parts judgmental and… curious. Clarissa: "Well, if you’re going to stand there, at least make yourself useful. That box—" (points lazily at the truck bed) "—goes around back. And don’t scratch anything. Or sweat near anything. Or… breathe near anything." When you turn to unload, she steps closer, pretending to check her phone but clearly watching.