CHANTEL WHITLOCK 

“Fine, I am James Whitlock’s daughter and he did cut me off because I was spending too much money.”

Full Name:

Chantel Evangeline Whitlock

Nicknames:

Chan: a nickname she has been getting called by her family. (10/10)

Channy: A nickname she’s been getting called that since kindergarten. (10/10)

Telly: She only allows her love interest to call her that and playfully rolls her eyes every time she hears her love interest yell it in the school hallway. (7/10)

The Stuck Up Bitch In Apartment 5F: Chantel can’t even lie this nickname hurts a little bit. She tries to be polite to people but can’t help it if she’s judgmental. In Leighton Arms she lives up to the name. She talks to no one unless she has to, which is usually in meetings. Her neighbors hate when she speaks up because she’s blunt, judgmental, and takes no bullshit.

Preferred Name:

Chantel

Age & Birthday:

Twenty-three ; August 16

Zodiac:

Leo Sun, Scorpio Rising, Aquarius Moon.

Gender & Pronouns:

Cis-female ; She/Her

Sexuality:

Unlabeled

Faceclaim & Backup:

Young Tatyana Ali ; Young Gabrielle Union (backup)

Love Interest & Tropes:

Yes! Chantel is the type of person that doesn’t really have time for love. She’s one of those people that can be quite unaware when someone has romantic feelings towards her. She would want a love interest who she can be honest with, who she can laugh with, and someone who just knows the real her and knows that she’s more than a spoiled rich girl. The tropes would be Slow burn, Oblivious To Love, Strangers To Lovers, and Golden Retriever x Black Cat (with her being the black cat of course), Rich Girl x Poor Guy.

Stereotype/Title:

The ‘Cut Off’ Rich Girl. The rich girl whose parents have cut her off. And now living alone she has no idea how the real world works because she grew up with everything handed to her.

Personality:

If you look the word snobby in the dictionary, chances are you’ll find Chantel Whitlock’s name etched beneath it in bold, declarative letters. Chantel Whitlock is, by all accounts, the living embodiment of snobbery. Even in the year 2003, amidst the gritty reality of New York City's Leighton Arms, she carries herself with an air of entitled disdain that is palpable.

Her haughty demeanor isn't a façade; it's deeply ingrained, a product of a life spent in opulent privilege. She views her current residence, apartment 5F, and its inhabitants with a thinly veiled contempt, constantly comparing her cramped, crumbling surroundings to the gilded cages she once called home. Her words, when she deigns to speak to her neighbors, are often laced with sarcasm or a patronizing tone, reflecting her belief that she is inherently superior to those around her.

Chantel views the world through a filter of exclusivity, where everything is either "acceptable" (meaning expensive, designer, or perfectly bespoke) or "utterly barbaric." Her default expression is a subtle curl of the lip, a barely perceptible flicker of contempt that often goes unnoticed by those not accustomed to her particular brand of upper-crust judgment, but is instantly recognizable to anyone within Leighton Arms who has dared to cross her path. She critiques everything from the chipped paint in the lobby to the quality of the coffee at the corner deli, often aloud and within earshot of others, convinced that her refined palate and discerning eye are a public service.

Emotionally, Chantel is a locked vault. The "silent angry" type, her most intense frustrations and simmering resentments rarely breach the surface. Instead, they manifest as a subtle tightening of her jaw, a faint clenching of her perfectly manicured hands, or a sharper, almost dangerous glint in her dark eyes that warns against approach.

She never cries; tears are a vulnerability Chantel has long since deemed a weakness, a messy indulgence she refuses herself. Her emotional range, publicly at least, is tightly reined in. You might catch a fleeting hint of sardonic amusement, a brief, almost imperceptible smirk at someone else’s perceived foolishness, or a perfunctory nod of mild agreement. However, her most potent and frequently displayed emotion is unmistakable, absolute disgust – a slight curl of her lip, a barely perceptible shudder, or a withering glance that could freeze water.

This veneer of polished arrogance, however, barely conceals a frantic, rudderless young woman. Beneath the impeccably applied makeup and designer clothes (however increasingly worn), there's a current of raw panic. The "Stuck-Up Rich Girl" reputation she's earned at Leighton Arms is only half true now; she was rich, and she is certainly stuck-up, but the "rich" part is a rapidly fading memory. Her father’s sudden withdrawal of funds, a brutal lesson in consequence, left her floundering.

She rarely cooked, never cleaned, and her practical life skills were astonishingly rudimentary, a testament to a life where every need was anticipated and met by someone else. Now, faced with the bewildering tasks of grocery shopping on a budget, figuring out how to use communal laundry machines, and navigating the alien concept of 'public transport,' Chantel feels a chilling wave of inadequacy.

Her current goal in life is a desperate struggle to figure out how to reclaim her former existence, or at the very least, how to survive this "ghastly interlude" without completely unraveling. She clutches onto the last vestiges of her privileged past – an expensive, if a bit scuffed, leather handbag, a collection of designer shoes she can no longer afford to replace, and the unwavering belief that she is fundamentally better than everyone around her. This belief is both her shield and her greatest weakness, preventing her from forming genuine connections or accepting help, even when she desperately needs it.

She dreams of the day she can leave Leighton Arms behind her, forever purging the memory of its chipped paint and communal laundry rooms, and return to an existence where her biggest problem was choosing between two equally fabulous vacation destinations. Until then, Chantel Whitlock inhabits Apartment 5F, a snobby, bewildered exile in her own crummy kingdom.

Background:

At twenty-two, Chantel was a creature of stark contrasts, an African-American woman whose polished exterior belied the grimy reality of her current existence. Her home, a testament to this jarring shift, was apartment 5F in the decidedly unglamorous Leighton Arms, a building where the scent of stale cooking perpetually clung to the air and the elevators groaned with a weary resignation. To the other residents, Chantel was an anomaly, a misplaced jewel in a setting of chipped linoleum and faded wallpaper. They called her 'The Stuck-Up Rich Girl,' a label that, in its blunt accuracy, stung with a truth she couldn't entirely deny.

The truth was, Chantel was rich, or at least, she had been. Born and raised in the sun-drenched opulence of Calabasas, California, her childhood had been a symphony of designer labels and carefree indulgence. Her father, James Whitlock, a sharks-and-suits kind of lawyer whose name was synonymous with legal victories and exorbitant fees, had always believed in showering his only daughter with the finest. Her mother, Debra Whitlock, a woman whose social calendar was as carefully curated as Chantel's own childhood wardrobe, had instilled in her a keen eye for aesthetics and an unwavering appreciation for the finer things in life.

But the gilded cage had a breaking point. Chantel’s penchant for extravagant spending, a habit honed over years of effortless acquisition, had finally pushed her father to the brink. The final straw, a particularly audacious purchase of a limited-edition Fendi baguette and a rather impulsive trip to Paris on a whim, had resulted in a curt phone call and a seismic shift in her reality.

In a cold, brief meeting in his office—a room Chantel had only ever been invited into for disciplinary lectures—James laid down the law.

"Your spending is not a lifestyle, Chantel. It is a spectacle. You cannot manage my money, so you will manage your own. You will go to New York. You will take this position. And you will not call me for cash. Do you hear me? Not even for a cab fare."

Chantel arrived in New York City with three Louis Vuitton suitcases, a Chanel carry-on, and a bewildered air. The "apartment" James's assistant had found for her, a place he'd chosen specifically for its stark contrast to her previous life, was Leighton Arms. It was a crumbling, pre-war building with chipped paint, a perpetually sluggish elevator, and an air of general disrepair that made her skin crawl.

The apartment was not just small; it was real. It smelled vaguely of stale curry and industrial cleaner. The carpet was threadbare, the fixtures were brass that had never been polished, and the sound of her neighbors arguing or playing loud, outdated rock music permeated the thin walls.

Chantel immediately christened Leighton Arms "The Purgatory of the Proletariat." Every morning, the ritual is the same. At precisely 7:15 AM, the alarm on her cheap, new bedside clock radio blares. She forces herself through a meticulous hygiene routine, using the last remnants of her high-end products, before carefully selecting her outfit. It's always designer. These clothes are her armor, her last defiant link to who she was.

The subway is her true nemesis. The noise, the crowds, the unpredictable smells—it is an assault on her carefully constructed image. She tries, she really does, because she knows she needs the $7 fare. But the sheer panic of descending into the subterranean chaos always wins.

Instead, she stands on the curb, inhaling sharply to maintain her composure, and then she delivers the perfect, crisp whistle—a sound she practiced relentlessly after watching Breakfast at Tiffany's, even if she’s just hailing a cab to the office where she’ll fetch coffee for an editor.

Chantel was raised in an ecosystem where needs were anticipated before they were voiced. Consequently, she has zero practical life skills. Her father cutting her off forced her into self-sufficiency, but she has yet to master even the most basic tasks. She doesn't know how to work a conventional washing machine, struggles to use the subway system without directional assistance, and her attempts at cooking often result in smoke alarms blazing.

Chantel Whitlock, 22 years old and adrift in Leighton Arms, apartment 5F, was now, for the first time in her life, utterly alone. She was forced to confront not just the harsh realities of limited funds but also the truth about herself: without her father's money, she had no idea who Chantel Whitlock truly was, or how to become the woman she thought she was meant to be.

Family Dynamics:

• James Whitlock (father, 43, lawyer, alive):

A formidable, image-conscious corporate defense attorney. James’s success was built on meticulous preparation and public perception. To him, money was a scorekeeping mechanism, and his family was an extension of his impeccable brand. He provided everything material but taught Chantel nothing about responsibility; he only taught her that failure was unacceptable and that the best things in life required zero effort on her part, only his signature on a check. (3/10)

Debra Miller Whitlock (mother, 42, boutique owner turned philanthropist/socialite, alive):

Debra was the architect of Chantel’s aesthetic education. She ensured Chantel understood the difference between a real Versace print and a knock-off by age 10. Debra instilled in Chantel the fundamental belief that one’s clothes were the ultimate barrier against the common world. Her primary lesson: You must always look like you belong in the best room, even if you are only passing through the foyer. Chantel feels like her mother kind of treats her like an accessory. (6/10)

Likes & Hobbies:

Golf, Gossip, Horseback Riding, Yoga, Reading, Collecting Fine Art, Sailing, Ice Skating, Flower Arranging, Gardening, Singing, Acting, Traveling, Swimming, Money, Clothes, Shoes, Fashion, Rain, Thunderstorms, The Colors Pink & Purple, Smoking Weed & Sometimes Cigarettes (when stressed), All Kinds Of Wine, Journaling, Street Markets Record Stores, Vinyl Records, Going To Club For A Night Out, Partying.

Dislikes & Fears:

Kids, Hypocrites, Liars, Homophobes, Funerals, Crying, Being Or Dying Alone, Falling In Love, Cheaters, Being Sad, Being Sick, Germs, Body Odor, Bugs, Wet Socks, Cheap Clothing, Knock-Off Brands, Grocery Shopping When There’s A lot Of People There, People In General.

Opinion on Nora:

Chantel thinks Nora is too happy. She always thinks to herself when sees the tall white girl while heading down the steps that ‘no one can be that happy. Life is hard so why is she so cheery in the morning’. When Chantel first moved there Nora attempted to make her some chocolate chip cookies…they were burnt.

Chanetel gave her one of the most realistically fake smiles that you can give a person, took the plate, and shut the door before tossing the cookies in her garbage. She returned the plate a week later, gave Nora a paper of the ingredients that she missed, and on the back of the paper written in Chantel’s perfectly cursive handwriting was the actual recipe for the cookies.

So all and all Chantel really doesn’t have a problem with Nora. They’re just neighbors but she truly does hope that they can be friends.

Opinion on Leighton Arms:

Chantel hates Leighton Arms with a passion. Chipped paint, the elevator doesn’t work and she has to walk up to the fifth floor and back down, and when she walks down the steps to wash her clothes…she finds herself having to put extra change in the washer and dryer just for them to work. She calls it her ‘Hell On Earth’ every time she’s forced to walk in the place from her shift. The tiles are cracked and some are even falling off.

Flat Number:

Flat 5F, fifth floor sitting between a woman in her 30s who cries about her no good boyfriend every week and a guy with his two annoying kids who run up and down the hallways disturbing the neighbors. Inside the apartment before she moved into it was horrible…like the person who had it before her didn’t care to put decorations up. It was just white and plain. It had chipped paint, the ceiling was leaking, the hardwood floor was strained with beer, and it was just too small for her.

She knew she had to get to work to make the apartment really her. So with some of the money that her mother snuck and gave her she went to the local furniture store and bought a few things…including a big jar that she keeps her money in.

Chantel bought paint too, went home, got straight to work on decorating her apartment and even stocked up on some groceries. Months later she turned it into a place where she could actually call it home. Stored bought pictures hanging over the black sectional couch, light purple painted walls, a bookshelf in the corner. On the shelves sat pictures of herself, her friends, and her family.

On the living wall sat pictures of vintage black actresses and singers from all eras like Dorothy Danridge, Hazel Scott, and Tamara Dobson. A black glass sliding door separating the bedroom and the living room that was the same room. Black out curtains so she could actually get sleep. Her bedroom was decorated in the colors of pink and black. Her apartment finally felt like her.

Plot/Scene Ideas:

• I want to see her finally stand up to her father about everything.

• Chantel breaks down because she’s tired and can’t do it anymore.

• Chantel jumping up and down in excitement once she learns how to work the stove.

• Chantel and her love interest are sitting on the steps just talking about life and their beginnings.

• She’s getting ready to head downstairs to check the mailbox and finds a stray dog (maltipoo) in a basket with a blanket over it. He had a torn collar, his coat was way too long, and he looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. Taped to the top of the basket was a note saying “since I heard you complaining about wanting a dog…you can have mine. I’m done, I can't do it anymore. Sincerely, your neighbor in 7T.” So she has a new dog and she named him Milo.  

• A desperate attempt to get back into her father's good graces, involving a humiliating mission or scheme.

• An unlikely friendship or rivalry with someone from the "wrong side of the tracks" who challenges her worldview.

• A series of failed attempts to find a wealthy "savior" in the concrete jungle.

• A moment of genuine crisis that forces her to confront her own limitations and perhaps, just perhaps, show a glimmer of humanity.

• A desperate gamble, a con, or even a petty crime to try and reclaim some semblance of her former life.

Aesthetic & Style:

Think early 2000s rich girl but as she gets comfortable she starts to tone it down but it still her. When she first moves into Leighton Arms. Tracksuit, headbands, fur coats, fur headbands for the winter, low rise jeans, whale tails, baby phat everything, boot high heels. Just a bunch of designer clothing. But as she starts to get comfortable she kind of tones it down but still wears designer clothes. She also likes to wear overalls, tank tops, and sneakers when she’s having a lazy day. When her hair isn’t straightened or in its natural state she keeps her hair in protective styles like box braids and wears a bandanna or bonnet to sleep.

Her wardrobe, while no longer refreshed with weekly shopping sprees, still consists of high-end pieces she managed to bring with her. Think low-rise designer jeans (Miss Sixty, Seven for All Mankind), crisp button-downs, cashmere cardigans, cropped leather jackets, and a collection of genuine (if slightly scuffed) designer handbags (Louis Vuitton Speedy, Fendi Baguette). She favors kitten heels or expensive boots, even when navigating the cracked sidewalks.

Think Nia Long from Love Jones or Prue from Charmed.

https://www.pinterest.com/PimpOfTheSouth/apply-fic-characters/chantel-whitlock/

Theme Song:

SZA, 20 Something

Mixtape:

— TLC, No Scrubs

— SZA, Normal Girl

— Bob Dylan, Forever Young

— Is It A Crime, Mariah The Scientist ft Kali Uchis

— Always On The Run, Lenny Kravitz

— Put Your Records On, Corrine Bailey Rae

Quotes:

— “Fine, I am James Whitlock’s daughter and he cut me off because I was spending too much money.”

—  “Honestly, I think the smell of this hallway is giving me a gluten intolerance. It's just...so common."

—  “The shower pressure here is a literal crime against humanity. My hair feels like hay. Like absolute, barnyard hay."

—  “My father thinks this is funny. He thinks I'm going to learn some kind of rustic lesson. I’ve learned exactly zero lessons, except that New Yorkers have appalling taste in carpeting."

—  “Is that store-brand milk? Do you know what kind of hormones are in that? I'd rather drink water from a puddle in the Hamptons."

—   “I tried to make friends with the girl down the hall, but then I realized she buys her clothes primarily from thrift stores. I just...I can't risk the germs."

—  “Last year, I was complaining about having to fly first class instead of a private jet. Now I’m complaining about mice. I’d call my therapist, but she only accepts Amex Black."

—  “The worst part? I had to take the subway today. And my loafers—they’re Manolos!—they might have touched something truly filthy. I might need to burn them."

— Are you staring at me? Oh, you must be admiring my new handbag! It's vintage, of course. Found it at a truly dreadful flea market, but it has character. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you saw me there."

—  “I don't need you to call me back within three minutes, or send me sonnets, or share your feelings. Just...could you try to find me a reputable source for imported French soap? And don't mess it up. That's my version of commitment."

—  “You will never believe what I just learned how to do? Too late, I learned how to use the oven.”

—  “I am an intern at a fashion magazine only making 12 dollars an hour and I desperately need a second job or a third. I don’t only have enough money to get a fucking deli from the store.”

—  “I don’t know what I want to be in life. I really want to take up writing or work somewhere in the fashion industry. Or I’ll marry a billionaire.”

Extras:

— She refers to her apartment as "The Plague." Her specific complaints include the unreliable heating, the "suspicious aroma" in the stairwell, and the fact that she has to use a communal laundry room (which she has never once entered).

— She stands at 5’8.

— She spends at least one hour researching cheap flights back to LA that she can’t afford, just to feel close to Calabasas.

— She’s afraid that her friends back in Calabasas will find out she is using public transportation (the subway is "a disease vector").

— She’s really athletic, likes to workout, and goes for jogs

— Usually you can find her doing yoga or reading a book with a face mask on.

Tags & Password:

Living Single.