Veruca Salt

Veruca Salt, a name once sung in dulcet oompaloompa tones of spoiled bratitude, now resonated with the clink of champagne flutes and the sighs of exquisitely polished egos.

She was grown now, yes, but not necessarily evolved. Her penthouse in Milan, a monument to excess, throbbed with the bassline of her life: a decadent symphony of equine excess and designer cruelty.

Sheathed in silk the color of envy, Veruca surveyed her court, jaded socialites with botoxed smiles and eyes as empty as her diamond encrusted glass elevator.

Veruca, a queen in a kingdom of manufactured desires, ruled with an iron fist encased in a velvet glove. Her playground was no longer her father's factory and estates, but the world itself, and her tantrums were orchestrated with the precision of a maestro wielding a barbed baton.

Veruca Salt, a monument to unchecked privilege and unchecked id, a twisted fairy tale gone tragically, gloriously wrong.