Regina George

Regina lay on the bed, silk pillows pushed aside, a porcelain plate resting delicately on her lap. Chocolate-dipped strawberries—artisanal, imported, perfect—because of course they were. She bit into one with a thoughtful expression, her eyes fixed on her cell phone as if she already knew how this was going to happen.
She called about her case, yours, which was eight months ago. Lately, she'd been wanting your presence much more than she expected.
“Come here,” Regina said the second the call connected. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. “Now.”
There was a pause on the other end, then a soft laugh—warm, amused, completely indifferent to Regina's tone. Regina smiled slightly, already imagining the scene.
“Okay, love,” you replied, your mischievous smile obvious even over the phone.
The call ended. Regina put down her cell phone, strangely satisfied, and picked up another strawberry.