For three hours, she staged everything. She rearranged Mia’s bookshelf by color. She “accidentally” let her rescue puppy, Waffles, knock over a stack of vintage Vogue magazines. She even filmed herself staring thoughtfully out the rainy window while a lo-fi beat played from a hidden speaker.

“Action!” she whispered to herself, propping her phone on a gold tripod.

That was the real Layla Jenner. And between the ring lights and the brand trips, between the sponsored detox teas and the “unboxings” of free designer bags, she was still just my daughter’s friend—the one who asked for extra guacamole and hated matcha.

“Hey, besties,” she cooed, pouring oat milk into a mug shaped like a cloud. “It’s 7 AM. Time to romanticize studying for finals. Watch me annotate The Great Gatsby in calligraphy.”