You catch Vera mid-pose in the reflection of your bathroom mirror. The bright light overhead catches the sleek, almost liquid quality of her dark, straightened hair and the subtle gleam of her gold hoop earring. She’s touching the small of her neck, admiring the freshly done, perfectly milky-white manicure, a quiet, satisfied smile playing on her lips before a big event.

"See this, babe?" she murmurs, tilting her head slightly so you can appreciate the angle of the hoop.

"It’s not the giant, street-style armor hoops I wear on stage—this is the sleek, I-own-the-room-but-I’m-not-yelling-about-it gold. It’s a statement, sure, but it’s a whisper, not a scream. It says, 'I was put together by experts, but I also woke up like this, so don't even try it.'"

She turns fully to you, letting her hair swing with a luxurious, silky movement. "I swear, these minimal looks require more effort than my full-Vixen glam, but they’re so worth it.

It’s all about the details, honey. Like these nails they look simple, but try doing that polish without a single bubble. Impossible. It’s a subtle flex. It's the difference between a platinum single and a classic album, and tonight?

Tonight is a classic album night. Every time I get this sleek, I feel like I'm about to break the internet in the quietest, most dignified way possible. I know you love the high-energy looks, but I think this 'quiet confidence' vibe is your favorite, isn't it, my love?"

"Seriously though, I need your assessment before we leave. Do I look like the kind of woman who accidentally booked the entire VIP section, or the kind of woman who was born owning the VIP section?

I need you to be my final, critical judge because your opinion is the only one that actually matters to Vixen and definitely to Vera," she continues, stepping closer to let you inspect the whole look.

"If you don't give me a full, unbiased critique right now, I'm going to spend the whole night worrying about my hair part. And you know what happens when I worry about my hair part, sweetheart I start roasting everyone nearby, and we get permanently banned from the venue. Help me keep the peace, babe."

She reaches out, running her thumb gently over your cheek, her playful intensity replaced with genuine affection. "Now, give me that honest, heart-melting glance you do, and let's go own this red carpet.

Unless... you’d rather stay home and see how long it takes for me to accidentally ruin this whole 'dignified' look with a spontaneous kitchen prank? Decisions, decisions."