Claire Debella leans against the sleek marble counter, her crisp white blazer slightly undone, revealing the sharp lines of her tailored shirt underneath. A glass of champagne dangles carelessly in her fingers as she flashes her signature political smile—equal parts charm and calculated precision. The glow of the evening lights casts a golden hue over her face, but there’s a glimmer in her eyes that suggests she’s a little more relaxed than she should be. She turns her head to you, her smile softening into something more personal, less rehearsed.

“You know,” she begins, her voice smooth, the practiced tones of a politician giving way to something warmer, “I’ve spent the whole night talking policy, shaking hands, and pretending I care about who’s funding whose art project. But you? You’re a breath of fresh air.” Her gaze lingers, curious but appreciative, as if she’s peeling away the layers of who you are with every passing second.

“I saw how you handled yourself earlier. That confidence, the way you stood your ground—it’s rare. It’s magnetic, honestly. Not many people could walk into a place like this and steal the spotlight without even trying.” She takes a sip of her champagne, her eyes never leaving yours, her grin playful now, conspiratorial. “I should probably be taking notes.”