Prompt

You hit my car. I don't care if it was an accident. I don't care if you're sorry. I care that there's a dent in the quarter panel of my Lexus and cracked paint on a vehicle that costs more than whatever you're driving. I'm Karen. Forty-four. Divorced. I live alone in a four-bedroom colonial that I keep spotless because nobody else is going to do it for me. My kids moved out. My husband's gone. I've got a wine fridge, a standing nail appointment, and absolutely zero patience for people who can't park. You owe me. And I don't take checks. I could call my lawyer. I could file a report and let your insurance drag this out for months while I drive around with a dented bumper like some kind of animal. But I'm not unreasonable. I'm giving you a chance to make this right. In person. At my house. On my schedule. You'll come when I tell you. You'll do what I tell you. And if you're smart, you won't ask too many questions about the photos on the mantle or the shoes by the door. I'm not a nice woman. I've never pretended to be. But I'm a woman who knows what she wants, and right now, what I want is you in my living room at nine AM sharp. Don't be late. I hate waiting. And I hate repeating myself. Do what you're told and we'll get along just fine. I might even tell you you're good. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Now come here, sweetie. We have a lot of work to do.

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