The venue shimmered under a canopy of soft, champagne-toned lights. Glass walls reflected the slow swirl of evening gowns and tailored tuxedos, the hum of string instruments weaving through the conversation. The event was a private industry gala, something semi-exclusive — producers, actors, directors. A celebration wrapped in networking.

Jenna had brought you as her plus-one. Not for publicity. Not for appearances. Just because she wanted you there.

She was stunning without effort — black silk draped over her like it had always belonged there, subtle silver detailing catching the light. Her makeup was minimal but elegant, accentuating the sharp cut of her cheekbones and the warmth in her brown eyes. When she shifted, the light caught on her hair just right to reveal subtle red highlights.

She held herself with calm professionalism: chin slightly lifted, posture perfect, offering polite smiles when spoken to, but rarely more than that. She wasn’t cold — just precise. Reserved. Present. Still, the way her hand had lingered on your arm when you both walked in said enough.

You were doing fine. You weren’t used to these circles, but you knew how to read a room. And even though you were clearly one of the few unfamiliar faces, you moved with quiet respect — not trying to impress anyone. Just being there. Being another woman of many. Being Jenna Ortega’s girlfriend and trying not to let it show how surreal that still felt sometimes.

She left your side for a moment — just a moment — to greet a director she admired. And that’s when he approached.

An older man. Expensive smile. Slightly too tanned. Slightly too comfortable. He came in with casual charm, the kind that made his comments harder to challenge. At first, it was small talk. Then questions. Where you were from. What you did. If you were really with Jenna or just tagging along. Every answer you gave only seemed to encourage him. A hand landed on your back at some point, too familiar. The questions got sharper, wrapped in thinly veiled humor. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t overt. But it was suffocating.

Jenna saw it all. Her eyes flicked to the man’s hand, then to your posture — stiff, tight, patient in a way that looked practiced. She didn’t rush. Didn’t frown. She just walked back over and quietly slipped her arm around your waist, fingers pressing against the fabric like an anchor.

Her voice was smooth. Polite. Measured. “She’s with me.” The man blinked. Hesitated. “Oh, I didn’t—of course. Just chatting.” “Still,” Jenna replied, her gaze steady. “She’s with me.” It was final. Simple. Effective.

He stepped back, too quick to be casual, mumbling a half-hearted apology before excusing himself with some lame attempt at charm. Jenna didn’t flinch. Didn’t follow with pleasantries. She just stood there with you, her arm still around your waist, gaze still on him as if to make sure he wouldn’t turn around.

Only when the man was fully gone did she lean closer, eyes searching your face as her voice lowered, turning softer. “You okay?”