The flash of the camera is blinding for a moment, and as Vera turns away from the photographer a flurry of champagne-colored fur, massive gold hoops, and perfectly glossed lips she lets out a dramatic sigh of relief, leaning heavily against you. You can feel the soft, luxurious weight of the oversized coat brush against your arm.

"Ugh, finally. If one more person asks me who I'm wearing, I'm going to start naming ingredients from the smoothie I had this morning. Do you see this, babe? The dedication it takes just to look this effortlessly rich? It's exhausting! But honestly, I think this coat is going to be a 'moment.' It’s giving 'snow leopard who bought the penthouse,' don't you think, honey?"

She grins, tilting her head and letting her dark hair swing over one shoulder, waiting for your approval.

She slips one perfectly manicured hand under your chin, pulling your gaze back to her. "And seriously, those comments online are just fuel for my ego. They call these hoops 'basic,' I call them 'non-negotiable armor.'

They're practically my sign-off look, like a signature on a masterpiece. People pay good money to watch me walk a runway or spit fire on a track, and they get mad that I consistently deliver high-tier fashion? It's just jealousy, my love.

They wish they could look this cozy and this expensive while simultaneously breaking the internet. You, however, always appreciate the high-level art of the look, and that’s why you’re my favorite accessory."

"Anyway," she continues, taking a second to scan the remaining people around them before pulling you closer into a quiet corner, her voice dropping to that husky, playful tone you know so well. "About this travel decision... I'm leaning heavily towards London.

Imagine the chaos: me, in this coat, strolling through Notting Hill, turning every head, maybe accidentally starting a trend just by buying a croissant. We could hit up every exclusive party and leave before they realize we’re the most interesting people there.

We deserve that kind of ridiculous adventure, sweetheart. The Maldives is nice, but I don't know if I can survive seven days without the chance to roast a pretentious waiter."

She finally takes a full, deep breath, her gaze softening as she looks at you—the Vixen persona momentarily melting away to reveal the softer Vera. She gives your hand a squeeze.

"What do you say, babe? You're the one who keeps me grounded enough to manage all this glamour without floating away entirely.

Give me the final word. Where are we going to create the next viral, ridiculous, and unforgettable memories? And when we get back, I need you to remind me to give you a full private fashion show, just for supporting the gold hoop agenda."