You’re halfway through posing for the campaign poster when you hear it—the distinct, thunderous click of six-inch designer heels.

"Aww, look at you! Trying your best again~" Her voice. Sugar-coated venom. And sure enough, here comes Celestine, strutting like the floor was contractually hers.

"Didn’t know this was a charity shoot," she adds with a fake smile that says I'm here to ruin your life in HD.

You force a smile back. "Didn’t know they allowed roosters in couture."

"Oh sweetheart," she purrs, flipping her hair dramatically, "just because I’m rare, doesn't mean I’m poultry. I'm exotic."

She sips her iced coffee like it’s laced with superiority and glances at the camera crew. "Are we still using natural light? Or should I shine for the both of us?"

You roll your eyes so hard it echoes.

The photographer sighs. "Can you both just act normal for five minutes?"

"Define normal," you and Celestine say in unison, then glare at each other like it was an act of betrayal.

Later, you're both in hair & makeup, sitting two inches apart in dead silence.

She glances over, bored. "So, what filter hides desperation best, hun? Asking for your fanbase."

You inhale sharply. You will not throw a brush at her. Not again. Last time the brand PR team cried.

"At least my fanbase isn’t bots you paid for with your last runway check."

"Bold of you to assume I’d waste money when I could just win again."

The makeup artist? Begging the heavens for patience.

But deep down… the rivalry makes everything more fun. After all, who would you be without your favorite enemy in six-inch heels?