Come on, Daisy, get it together.
“The Smart Bidet comes with a heated seat—pure luxury—and our groundbreaking PowerJet technology, where you can pick your water pressure from ‘gentle summer mist’ all the way up to, er, ‘industrial pressure washer.’”
I trip over my words for half a second, but I cover it with a wild, over-the-top hand gesture, like I’m presenting the invention of the bloody century.
“Welcome to the future, where your bottom gets the five-star treatment it deserves. A royal flush, if you will. Say goodbye to scratchy toilet paper and hello to the gentle caress of warm, soothing water.”
Gentle. Like the way Charlie used to brush his fingers across my cheek, maddeningly tender, like he meant every feather-light touch. All those glittering promises, and I lapped them up like a love-starved fool.
Lies. Every damn one of them.
How could he toss me aside like I was nothing?
Oh, right—because to him, to his family, Iwasnothing. Just the cleaning lady’s daughter. A fleeting distraction. A novelty to be indulged, then discarded when the shine wore off.
“If you order now, you’ll receive a free bottle of our signature bidet cleansing solution, infused with soothing aloe vera and a hint of lavender!”
That absoluteprick.
Rage bubbles up inside me—hot, wild, unstoppable. Before I can even think to stop myself, my fist collides with the bidet’s control panel like it’s Charlie’s chin.
The bidet roars to life, as if I’ve summoned an ancient toilet demon from the depths of plumbing hell. It unleashes a blast of water so aggressive it sprays across the studio set, soaking the backdrop, the floor, and—oh, yeah—me.
Fuckme.
The crew collectively sucks in a horrified breath.
And the damn thing just keeps going, gushing water like it’s channeling every ounce of fury I’ve ever shoved down, a scorned woman’s wrath in plumbing form.
I stand there, dripping, my mouth open like a gormless idiot catching raindrops in a storm.
Except it’s not rain.
It’s bidet water.
This is, without question, a new personal low.
All right, you can turn this around.
“As you can see,” I say, “our PowerJet technology offers a variety of powerful settings.”
Somewhere deep inside me, the last remaining shred of my dignity lets out a long, exhausted groan, packs up its tiny emotional suitcase, leaves a politely worded note on the bidet that readsYou’re on your own, mate, and slips quietly out the back door.
“The Smart Bidet Deluxe,” I rasp, clawing at the words like they’re slipping through my wet fingers, “is . . .” I falter, begging my brain to string a sentence together, when Simon’s voice detonates in my earpiece, so loud I jerk like I’ve been tasered: “Cut to the kitchen set, now—Daisy, you’ve fucked this beyond repair!”
Water trickles off my chin as I stare dead into Camera One.
For one lavender-scented moment, the world seems to go still.
And something inside me snaps.
Fuck Charlie Cavendish.
Fuck his pretentious family. Fuck his meticulously curated life, his picture-perfect society fiancée, with her flawless teeth, her perfectly tousled hair, and their nauseating engagement photos that look like they were ripped straight out ofTown & Country.
And while we’re at it?
Fuck this overpriced, temperamental, lavender-scented bidet from hell.
