The elevator's mirrored walls reflected a war of optics as the doors slid open. Wu Di lunged forward like a paparazzi shark scenting blood, her smartphone's ring light bleaching Sophia's complexion into marble coldness. Behind her, Isabella posed in a cloud of vanilla-scented hairspray, the very image of virginal innocence in her blush-pink Chanel tweed.
"If it isn't the ultimate mama's girl!" Wu Di crooned, zooming in on Sophia's unblinking stare. "Tell our viewers—does Eleanor pre-approve your Tinder matches too? Swipe left on anyone without a private jet?"
Sophia strode past without breaking pace, her Valentino Rockstuds clicking a Morse code dismissal against the lobby's onyx floors. "Focus on your own disasters, Wu. I hear your last blind date needed CPR after seeing your credit score."
The insult hung in the air like poisoned confetti as Sophia shouldered through the rooftop access door. Manhattan's skyline sprawled below, its jagged edges softened by the golden-hour glow. A champagne bucket sat abandoned near the helipad, its melting ice bleeding into the cracks of weathered concrete.
Isabella's coven of influencers clustered near the safety rails, their designer knockoffs and rented jewelry glinting under the dying sun. They fell silent as Sophia claimed a lone lounge chair, the wind whipping her hair into a Medusa's crown.
Wu Di's livestream panned across the tableau—Isabella's cult of pastel-clad sycophants on one side, Sophia's solitary figure haloed by the Hudson's polluted shimmer on the other.
"Sooo awkward," Wu Di stage-whispered to her 1.2 million viewers. "Guess some people never learn to play nice!"
The chat scrolled like a digital Greek chorus:
[@CupcakeKween]: Isabella's aura is literal sunshine!!
[@NepoWatch]: Sophia's giving "psychopath at a garden party"
[@DramaLlama]: WHERE'S THE HELICOPTER???
Isabella floated to the center of the roof, hands clasped in prayerful delight. "My darlings, Lucian's been planning this surprise for weeks!" Her voice hitched with performative emotion. "He told me—trust the process—and now… oh!"
The first thrum of rotor blades vibrated through the soles of Louboutins and Gucci loafers alike. A shadow loomed over the water tower as a pearl-white helicopter emerged, its open cabin door revealing a cascade of crimson rose petals. The blooms caught the light like falling rubies as the aircraft circled lower, scattering their fragrance over the squealing crowd.
Sophia didn't look up from her phone. "Tacky," she drawled, loud enough to fracture the magic. "Did he rob a funeral home's floral budget?"
Her screen lit up with a text from Yanchen:
Chen Dynasty Heir: Courtship helicopter en route. Petal color satisfactory?
Sophia's smirk could've curdled milk. Across the roof, Isabella preened under the floral storm, arms outstretched as if welcoming a holy visitation. The livestream chat exploded:
[@Isababy4Ever]: HE'S PROPOSING!!!
[@MamaGirlHive]: WRONG CHOPPER BITCHES
The white helicopter banked sharply, its side now visible to the crowd. Instead of Lucian's smarmy grin, the cabin revealed a seven-piece string quartet in gilded masks, their instruments weeping a Vivaldi concerto. A banner unfurled from the undercarriage, each sequined letter catching fire in the sunset:
S O P H I A S T E R L I N G
I L O V E Y O U
Silence.
A mascara-laced tear traced Isabella's cheek as the quartet launched into a punk-rock rendition of Can't Help Falling in Love. The second helicopter—Lucian's actual ride—chopped into view from the east, trailing a limp banner reading Happy Quinceañera, Jessica! clearly rented from a failed Sweet Sixteen stunt.
Wu Di's camera captured it all:
Isabella's manicured nails drawing blood from her palms.
Lucian's ashen face pressed against the window, mouthing wrong address.
Sophia rising like a phoenix from her lounge chair, rose petals clinging to her hair like battle trophies.
"Well." She plucked a crushed bloom from her shoulder, letting it flutter onto Isabella's trembling stilettos. "This was educational."
The rooftop cleared faster than a Trump casino, leaving only the quartet's discordant notes and the stench of backfired schemes. By dawn, #SophiaSlayage would trend alongside footage of Isabella's tear-streaked Uber ride home—but for now, the Sterling heiress savored the sweetest victory of all:
The sound of her mother's laughter ringing through her AirPods.
"Helicopter proposal?" Eleanor gasped between martini sips. "Darling, even I wouldn't have dared."
Sophity stepped into the penthouse elevator, watching the city lights blur into a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. "Please. This was just the opening act."
Somewhere in Queens, a banner-printing shop received a $50,000 bonus and an order for ten more sequined declarations. The game, it seemed, was just getting started.