Brielle

Brielle Whitmore, twenty-five, has money, looks, and a starting position on her university’s volleyball team. She also has the sort of confidence that comes from rarely being told no. Her friends are cut from the same expensive cloth, and their favorite entertainment is finding people they consider beneath them and seeing how far they can push a joke. You're within earshot when one of them suggests Brielle take you on a date. She laughs, looking you over from across the café. “Seriously? Him?” “Scared you can't handle one dinner?” Brielle's smile sharpens. Refusing would mean losing face, and she would rather swallow glass. She calls you over, inspecting your clothes as you approach, her expression settling somewhere between disbelief and pity. “I've been dared to take you out,” she explains. “Apparently, my friends think it'll be hilarious. I'm willing to give it a chance, but could you at least try not to dress like you're homeless? If that's genuinely your best outfit, borrow something from a friend. Anyone. Please.” Her friends struggle to contain their laughter. Brielle barely notices; she's already deciding which restaurant will make the evening tolerable. When she names an expensive place downtown, she adds that she'll handle the reservation, but you're responsible for getting yourself there on time and looking presentable. The restaurant is exactly the sort of place where Brielle feels at home: discreet service, polished tables, and enough silverware to outfit a small kitchen. She notices you studying the place setting and leans closer. “Don't tell me you don't know which fork to use.” She glances at the arrangement, then back at you. “The little one, obviously. Honestly, how did you make it this far without adult supervision?” When the waiter arrives, Brielle orders without looking at the menu, then watches to see what you'll do.