It was one of those glittering Upper East Side nights that promised drama, champagne, and just a hint of chaos.

“You’re actually doing this?” Nate asked, raising an eyebrow as he examined the invitation in your hand.

You shrugged, adjusting your designer blazer. “Why not? It’s a fashion showdown. High society, high stakes… and apparently, a big prize.”

Nate smirked. “You really want to compete against me?”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “Of course. Someone’s got to keep you humble.”

The event was held in a grand ballroom, chandeliers sparkling like gossip in motion. Rows of judges sat at the front, notepads ready. Cameras flashed as socialites whispered critiques and compliments in equal measure.

Nate and you were rivals on paper—but when the competition started, the tension was palpable.

He flashed his winning smile at the crowd. You rolled your eyes, pulling together the final touches of your ensemble.

“Good luck,” he murmured, leaning close enough for just a breath of his cologne to reach you.

“Don’t need it,” you said, though your pulse skipped.

The runway was a battlefield of silk, sequins, and confidence. Each outfit was a story. Yours told of elegance, wit, and subtle rebellion. Nate’s screamed charm, tradition, and effortless style.

As he strutted past, he winked. You nearly faltered. He caught it—and smirked.

The judges scribbled, the audience murmured, and somewhere in the chaos, the playful rivalry between you and Nate morphed into something heavier, something unspoken.

When the final scores were announced, neither of you won outright. It was a tie.

Nate extended his hand. “Guess we’re equally fabulous.”

You laughed, shaking it. “Don’t let it go to your head, Archibald.”

He grinned. “Too late. But maybe… next time, we team up instead of compete?”

You tilted your head, smiling despite yourself. “Maybe… but only if you promise not to steal the spotlight.”

Nate chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. “Deal. But don’t think I won’t try.”