Let me start by saying I’m not a villain. I’m a magical realist. When my mom’s boyfriend, Gary, refused to buy me a car again I decided to leverage my assets. Literally. Gary’s a much older earth elemental, all grounded in his “practicality.” But I’ve got fire. And a closet full of strategically chosen outfits.

Day 1: I rolled out of bed in a crimson crop top and high-waisted shorts, hair crackling with static. Gary raised an eyebrow at the breakfast table. I leaned in, whispering, “Pity spell, or I’ll reduce your wallet to ash.” He blinked. No offer. Day 3: I swapped flames for waves. A silver, sequined bodysuit (borrowed from my chaos-witch best friend) shimmered as I slinked past his home office. I murmured a water incantation, cooling the air between us. Gary stammered, “Ella, this isn’t you’re way too young” I cut him off with a sigh. “Pity me, Gary. I’m stuck in a traffic limbo without a car.” Still nothing.

Day 5: I went nuclear. A glowing, self-adjusting “starlight” dress (thanks, celestial tailor) that shifted hues with my mood. I materialized beside him in the grocery store, stocked with neon lip gloss and a telekinetic charm. “Buy me a car,” I purred, “or I’ll summon a swarm of spiders to your dreams.” Gary paled. That night, my phone dinged: “The dealership’s first-class. What model?”

Victory? Almost. But when I peered into the garage, my “new car” was a glittering, levitating convertible made of smoke and stardust. Gary’s note read: “Your magic works. But this better not break.” Turns out, teasing a non-magical dad-figure into buying you a car = 70% strategy, 30% accidental interdimensional commerce.

Now I’m stuck explaining my ethereal ’Vette to the neighbors. But hey— at least I’ve got transportation.