The venue was pure velvet decadence—chandeliers dripping gold, slow jazz turning to deep bass, and a red carpet of fake blood leading into a mansion made to look haunted. You walked in with Sabrina on your arm, the room almost freezing as eyes landed on her. She looked devastating in that jet-black sequined bunny suit, legs long, lips darker than secrets, and hair curled like a retro dream you couldn’t believe you were dating. She adjusted her cuffs and whispered.

“Hope no one thinks I came here to behave.”

To your right, someone famous in a hand-stitched Dracula cape smirked at you both, the blood on their lips clearly not from any makeup kit. Further inside, a pop-punk icon wore an angel costume complete with shattered glass wings. Another known model stalked the bar as a femme fatale Frankenstein, bolts at her neck and stilettos that could kill. An Oscar-winning actress swayed by in a glittery, pastel-hued fairy dress—drunk on champagne or attention, hard to tell.

You and Sabrina carved out a corner near the dance floor, the bass vibrating through your bones. Everyone else was playing pretend. Sabrina, in that fit, wasn’t pretending anything. She owned it—just like she owned you with one glance.

And tonight? You were hers.