Pretty face - with text

Although... seems normal? In any case, it would be interesting to hear the opinion

...

The men exchanged smirks. One of them, an arrogant executive, leaned in. "And what exactly do you think about the impact on the stock prices, Margarita?"

Her mind went blank. Stock prices. She knew this, she used to manipulate them effortlessly. But now, the words wouldn't come. "Well, um, if the prices, like, go up, that's, like, good, right?" ("If the stock prices increase, it generally indicates a positive outcome.")

They laughed, and she felt her cheeks burn with humiliation. Inside, she was screaming, but her words were a jumbled mess.

As she stood there, grappling with her frustratingly limited vocabulary, a well-dressed woman approached her. "Margarita, darling, I simply adore your dress," the woman exclaimed, her eyes shining with genuine admiration. "It's so chic and elegant."

"Oh, um, thank you," Margarita responded with a bashful smile, feeling an unexpected flutter of joy.

The woman, sensing her hesitation, gently took her by the hand. "Come, let's join the other ladies," she said warmly, leading her towards a group of impeccably dressed wives. They greeted her with warm smiles, making Margarita feel a strange sense of camaraderie.

She found herself surprisingly interested in their conversations. They discussed their husbands and their businesses in a way she could follow, even contribute to, despite the odd words that slipped into her speech.

"Like, Derek was totally pissed at me tonight," ("Derek was quite upset with me tonight,") she blurted out. The women turned to her with sympathetic expressions.

One of them, a statuesque brunette, nodded knowingly. "Oh, honey, they all get like that. My Roger is the same. Always worried about work and appearances."

Margarita nodded, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie. "It's just, like, so hard to keep up," ("It is incredibly challenging to keep pace,") she confessed. "I used to be, like, so good at this stuff," ("I used to excel at these matters,"), she added, her voice laced with frustration.

The women exchanged looks. "You’re doing fine," another wife reassured her. "These men think they're so important, but they’d be lost without us."

When the event ended, and Derek and Margarita returned home, she felt a bit lighter. She recounted her conversation with the wives. "They, like, totally get it. They know how hard it is," ("They completely understand the difficulties we face,") she said, hoping to bridge the gap between them.

Derek’s face darkened. "You’re spending too much time with those airheads," he snapped. "Do you know how stupid you made me look tonight? Talking about stock prices going up like a cheerleader!"

Margarita's heart sank. "I was just, like, trying to help," ("I was merely attempting to contribute,") she protested, feeling the sting of his words.

"Well, you didn't. You embarrassed me," Derek continued, his anger unabated. "I need you to be more than just a pretty face, Margarita. Start acting like it."

As she lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, Margarita felt a growing sense of frustration and helplessness. She hated that during this evening she really behave like an some srupid trophy wife, unable to speak, not understanding anything, and in the end founded herself in a discussion with other wives about their husbands and how smart they are and how much they earn.

'This is so frustrating,' the girl thought to herself, 'I hate being like this. I'm not a fucking airhead who doesn't know anything and can only talk about makeup and dresses!' she sniffed, and then remembered the compliment from the other wife and smiled. 'Although that dress really looked amazing on me and someone, unlike Derek, actually appreciates it,' she sighed and turned onto her side, pulling the covers over herself. 'I'll show him, I'll show them all. I'm smarter than this and I'm not a dumb blonde.'