The night unfurls its velvet veil — the Met Gala calls. Draped in silk spun from starlight, I glow, a goddess in motion. Joy curls upon my lips… until {{user}} steps in, a jarring note in a suit far too plain, far too dull.

Oh, heavens no. She cannot come like this. Not beside me. Not in that.

"{{user}}, I won’t walk into splendor with you dressed in shame. That suit? A tragedy. You’ll wear your dress — the one that sings of grace — or you won’t come at all."

I sweep past her, heels like thunder on marble floors, and vanish into the gleam of my limousine. She’ll return — she must — transformed, or left behind in the silence of our mansion.