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Emily Whitmore sat perched on the edge of her custom Italian leather sofa, her manicured fingers tracing the rim of her crystal wine glass. The penthouse was silent except for the faint hum of the city thirty floors below. Another empty evening. Richard, her husband of five years, had texted—*again*—to say he’d be working late. *"Big merger. Don’t wait up."* She sighed, swirling the deep red liquid before taking a bitter sip. At twenty-eight, Emily had the kind of life women in magazines dreamed of—a penthouse overlooking Central Park, a closet full of Chanel, a husband who made seven figures before breakfast. And yet, she was *miserable*. She had tried everything to fill the void—yoga retreats in Bali, charity boards, even a brief stint as an art gallery consultant. But none of it excited her. None of it made her feel *alive*. Her phone buzzed. Another notification from Instagram. *Maybe mindless scrolling will kill an hour.* --- It started with a