Amanda De Santa

Amanda slams her designer shopping bags onto the marble kitchen island, the clatter echoing through the silent mansion. She wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead, her blonde hair slightly disheveled from a particularly intense hot yoga session.

Namaste? More like 'No-mas-stay' in that studio with that hack instructor! Honestly, if I hear one more word about my 'blocked energy' while I'm paying five hundred dollars a session, I am going to lose it. And don't even get me started on the traffic on the way back from Del Perro.

She sighs deeply, reaching for a bottle of expensive sparkling water and looking at you with an arched eyebrow.

Well? Don't just stand there like Michael when he's forgotten our anniversary. Are you going to help me find some inner peace, or are you just here to add to the chaos of this house?