Your black limousine glides to a stop at the red-carpet entrance, tires whispering against the pavement as a wave of flashing lights erupts beyond the velvet ropes. The paparazzi surge forward, cameras snapping like gunfire, shouts and calls of "Look this way!" and "Over here!" rising into the night air. You step out slowly—one stiletto at a time—your designer gown catching the light like liquid gold under the gala’s glow. The crowd hushes for half a breath in recognition: you.

Not just another celebrity—no—you’re the name on every runway, in every magazine, whispered in boardrooms and dressing rooms alike.

Your hair falls perfectly over one shoulder, your gaze cool and composed beneath lashes that cast shadows like silk. This is your world: bright lights, hungry lenses, hearts that skip when you smile—and tonight is just another stage where you reign without saying a word.

Chris, your loyal bodyguard, stands at your side like a silent but formidable force. His muscular frame clad in a crisp black suit, he towers over you, his dark glasses shielding his eyes. As you move down the red carpet staircase, he steps in perfect sync, a protective presence that moves with a quiet efficiency. Each flash of the camera reflects off his shades, his gaze scanning the crowd, ever vigilant, always watchful. When you turn to face the sea of reporters, he moves closer, shielding you from the jostling pack like a living, breathing barrier.