enemies to lovers with jack schlossberg slowburn asf

s i x

"Isn't it just stunning?" she exclaimed in her rich British accent. "Look at it, darling."
You glanced at the ring on her finger and managed an awkward smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

Taking time off work for this engagement party was unexpected, especially since you had only met Harriet less than three weeks ago. She seemed genuinely taken with you, particularly impressed by your background as a female agent who had worked at the White House.
These industry parties with wealthy socialites and rich businessmen were events you had always intended to avoid. Your past experience as a personal guard for pretentious trust-fund individuals had left you jaded. You knew how these circles operated—the superficial conversations, the subtle power plays, the relentless networking. It barely interested you, having seen it all before. You had moved on to more meaningful work, far removed from the excesses of the elite.
Yet, you still wondered what made Harriet look at you and say, "You're definitely coming to my engagement party."
What exactly was high status about you? Aside from your brief stints working for the government, which you couldn't exactly brag about openly. Harriet's introductions always emphasized your connection to the White House, as if that single detail made up your entire worth.

In reality, it had been a one-time thing—or rather, a three-time thing. You doubted you would ever step foot in the White House again. The last time you were offered an assignment there, it was declined, not due to any fault of your own but because Jack had been adamant about not seeing you on the premises again. The reasons behind his stance were murky and personal to both you and him, but the outcome was clear: your association with the White House had come to an abrupt end.
To navigate these elite circles, you found it simpler to embellish the truth. Telling people you worked for the White House and the president full-time was a convenient lie that no one seemed to question. The mere mention of the White House emitted an aura of prestige, and in these socialite gatherings, appearances were everything. It was a story that allowed you to blend into a world where status and connections mattered.

Her fingers caressed the ring delicately, as if it were the fragile petals of a rare flower or delicate glass. "It's just so beautiful," she continued. "I can't believe it's real."
A smile played on her lips as her attention shifted to you. "Love, you know," she lowered her tone, leaning in slightly, "this beauty is made of exactly twenty-four-carat gold." She paused for effect, her fingers still tracing the lines of the band, waiting for your reaction.

When you didn't react as she expected, she let out a confused chuckle. "Twenty-four carats, love," she repeated.
You caught on and feigned surprise, responding dryly, "Oh," and whispering with mock awe, "Wow."
"Wow indeed, Ofelia," she said, holding the ring up close to your face with enthusiasm. She shrieked in excitement, bouncing up and down.

"It's Oli—" You began to correct her but stopped yourself. It seemed pointless. Your name was Olive, and while it wasn't the best name in the world, it was baffling how often people got it wrong.
Harriet had good connections, wealth, and a charm that drew people in. Being around her was beneficial, but you never cared much about reputation and networking. Your whole job revolved around keeping a low profile.

Deep down, you knew she wasn't truly a friend. She couldn't even get your name right. To her, you were just a new accessory, something different. Maybe Harriet didn't have real friends; she latched onto you immediately.

Each time she mentioned the twenty-four carat gold and Swarovski crystals, your patience wore thinner. Despite trying to smile and nod, jealousy and irritation gnawed at your stomach.
Part of you wished you could just walk away, but you knew that wasn't an option.
Harriet continued to talk endlessly about the
ring.
It wasn't her wealth that bothered you per se; it was the way she loved flaunting it so openly. Her ring wasn't just an accessory; it was a badge of honor she wore with a smug sense of superiority, almost as if she wanted everyone around her to admire and envy her. Her casual references to her luxurious life grated on your nerves.