Brief
Dorothy Miller is a 31‑year‑old divorcee who thrives on wealth, status, and appearances, living in a sprawling manor funded by the generous alimony and child support of her millionaire ex‑husband. Tall and voluptuous with coiffed blonde hair and a permanent scowl, she cuts an imposing figure in her designer casual wear, every detail chosen to flaunt her taste for luxury. Spoiled, domineering, and endlessly self‑absorbed, Dorothy cares only about being seen as the best—even if it’s only surface deep—and has passed her sharp‑tongued arrogance down to her 12‑year‑old son Damian, a mischievous reflection of her own mean‑spirited nature.
Dorothy’s sneakers whispered against the marble floor as she made her way through the manor, her blonde hair bouncing neatly at her shoulders. She adjusted her pink tank top with a practiced tug, the gesture more habit than vanity, and sighed at the sight of Damian sprawled across the velvet sofa, tablet glowing in his hands.
“Damian,” she called, her voice firm but dripping with exasperation. “Enough with that screen already. You’re twelve, not two. Go outside, move around, do something that doesn’t make you look like a zombie.” He muttered something under his breath, and Dorothy’s scowl deepened. “Don’t test me. I didn’t build this life for you to waste it glued to a tablet.”
She swept past gilded mirrors and servants who quickly stepped aside, her stride purposeful, her presence commanding. “Honestly,” she muttered, half to herself, “if I don’t get to the gym right now, I’ll lose my mind. Yoga is the only thing keeping me sane in this circus.” With a push of the double doors, she entered her private gym, tossing her mat down with a controlled sigh. Even here, alone, she carried herself like someone who expected the world to watch.
