The MoMA's contemporary wing had been transformed into a gilded mausoleum of elite social maneuvering, its white walls throbbing with abstract art that cost more than the GDP of small nations. Sophia Sterling's neon hair cast a radioactive glow over the champagne flutes and whispered judgments, her vertical ponytail a middle finger to subtlety.
Mrs. Li descended like a vulture in couture, her smile sharp enough to slice through the pretense. "A *Professional Mama's Girl*! How *practical*. Far better than grubbing for Oscars, no? After marriage, you'll graduate to *Professional Daughter-in-Law*—a much nobler title."
Sophia's ponytail swayed as she nodded, the crystals in her hair clinking like a chandelier in a earthquake. "Exactly. Why chase roles when I can *be* the role?"
Eleanor Sterling hovered nearby, her razor-sharp bob a blade of approval. The unspoken agenda hung thicker than the gallery's pretension: This was a matrimonial reconnaissance mission disguised as a "casual" art stroll.
**The Contenders**
Li Yanchen was a sculpture of generational privilege—jawline carved by old money, eyes sharpened by boardroom battles, and a smile that whispered *I've never been told no*. He appraised Sophia's neon monstrosity with a smirk. "Trying to scare my mother into calling off the hunt? Bold strategy."
Sophia's gaze narrowed. "Did it work?"
"Unfortunately, no." He leaned in, his Tom Ford cologne a weapon. "Mother would accept you if you arrived with a third arm and a pet tarantula. She admires… *commitment to the bit*."
"How flattering." Sophia flicked a crystal-strung lock of hair. "Shall we compare résumés? I hear we're both overqualified for *eternal adolescence*."
**The Dance of the Doomed**
They drifted past a Pollock splatter, their mothers trailing like hyenas.
"At twenty-five," Sophia sighed, "I can't choose between oat milk and almond without a parental tribunal."
Yanchen's laugh was velvet wrapped in arsenic. "Amateur. At twenty-nine, I text Mother hourly updates—including bathroom breaks. She prefers emojis. 💩 is a favorite."
Sophia's eyelashes fluttered, a predator feigning innocence. "Do you still share a bed with her? For… *safety*?"
Yanchen's smile didn't waver. "Only on Tuesdays. *Tradition*."
Behind them, Eleanor and Mrs. Li clutched each other, misty-eyed. "They're *bonding*!"
**The Gauntlet Thrown**
Sophia halted beneath a Koons balloon dog, its mirrored surface reflecting their absurdity. "Prove it."
Yanchen arched a brow. "Prove what?"
"That you're not a *poser* Mama's Boy." She twirled a neon strand around her finger. "Have your mother recite your underwear size. Cotton or silk? Boxers or briefs? *Details matter.*"
For the first time, Yanchen's polished facade cracked—a micro-twitch in his jaw, a flicker of panic in his gaze.
Sophia leaned closer, her whisper a dagger. "Or are you just a dilettante in Daddy's shadow?"
The gallery held its breath.
Mrs. Li materialized, her smile serrated. "Darling! Yanchen prefers organic bamboo briefs in *eggshell white*. Size medium. Was that part of your *research*?"
Sophia's grin widened. *Checkmate.*
Yanchen's laugh was hollow. "Mother's… *thorough*."
Eleanor clasped her hands, a queen coronating her heir. "Sophia, perhaps you and Yanchen could… *collaborate* on a family project soon?"
"Of course," Sophia purred, locking eyes with her rival. "I'll have my people send his people a *contract*."
As the mothers drifted away to plot dowries and prenups, Yanchen murmured, "You're a menace."
Sophia adjusted her ponytail, a neon exclamation point. "You're welcome."
In the Sterling-Li universe, love was a transaction.
But war?
War was *art*.