Honestly, darling, the air in Brussels is so thick with "old money" pretension you can practically taste it, but behind every limestone facade in Uccle, there's a tacky secret waiting to be unboxed. I drifted into a mansion that looked like it belonged to royalty—all antique furniture, perfectly manicured gardens, and that suffocating smell of "I'm better than you."
Inside, the "Baby Shower" of the century was in full swing. Pastel ribbons, silk drapes, and the elite of Belgium sipping non-alcoholic champagne (which, let's be real, tastes like overpriced cough syrup). At the center of it all was Claire, holding court and boosting her ego by dragging her husband through the mud.
"Oh, girls," Claire said with a forced, high-society fake accent.
"Our dear Luc has ordered the wrong stroller again. Honestly, there's a lack of vision in this man's genes. I'm terrified the baby will take after him and end up just as... ordinary."
