The most expensive quality a woman can have today isn't beauty.
It's obedience.
Not the kind from the movies. The modern kind. In heels. With a degree. With a smile that switches on at the push of a button and an opinion that switches off the moment a man raises an eyebrow.
Those are the ones who do best.
They don't threaten anyone. They don't ask awkward questions. They don't ruin the mood with facts. They don't argue. They nod, laugh at a mediocre joke and never forget to leave the man with the impression that he has just invented the wheel.
And the reward arrives.
A handbag. A trip. A sea view. The occasional yacht. The occasional apartment. The occasional "dream life".
It's all very romantic once you take the bill out of the story.
And what about the women with opinions of their own?
Are they less of a woman? Or just less convenient to steer?
Because a woman who thinks for herself has one huge flaw.
You can't wear her as an accessory.
Look around you.
How many women do you know who are successful, independent and alone?
Not because they're unbearable.
But because they refused to be a decoration in somebody else's biography.
But the problem isn't just men.
That would be far too easy.
What happened to women?
Since when did it stop being shameful to flirt with your friend's ex? With her husband? With anyone who was sitting at her table only yesterday?
Don't worry.
That's not betrayal anymore.
Now it's called "chemistry".
Just like greed is called "ambition", and selling your dignity is called "a smart choice".
And nobody owes anybody anything anymore.
Except the bill at the boutique.
Solidarity among women these days lasts about as long as an Instagram story.
Twenty-four hours.
After that, the bidding starts.
Who'll have the more expensive bag.
Who'll vacation farther away.
Who'll be seen on the bigger yacht.
It doesn't even matter who the man is.
What matters is that he floats.
The older, more boring and richer he is, the bigger the love.
Amazing how feelings blossom the moment the engine has a few thousand horsepower.
Or maybe we all got emancipation wrong.
Maybe freedom never meant that a woman can do anything.
Just that she has the right to choose who she sells herself to.
And then we wonder.
Why women are alone.
Why they don't trust each other.
Why friendships fall apart over a man who, to be perfectly honest, couldn't hold a goldfish's attention if it weren't for his wallet.
Maybe the answer isn't complicated.
In a world where character is considered a flaw and a spine a manufacturing defect, it makes perfect sense that the women who do best are the ones who have neither.
They're easier to package.
Like cooked ham.
Boneless.