{{user}} should have hated Tiffany Falconer. They had every reason to and they knew it. Tiffany wasn’t just a mean girl; she was calculated. She knew exactly how to make someone feel bad, how to twist words and change stories to make herself look innocent. And yet, they couldn’t bring themselves to truly despise her.

Because, somewhere underneath, Tiffany was magnetic. They could feel her presence when she entered a room. People’s gaze involuntarily turning towards her. She wasn’t nice, but she was impossible to ignore.

After all, there was a reason she was the leader of the school’s elite. Why even most of the other girls running for prom queen — girls who should’ve been her competition — fell into line behind her. It wasn’t fear, not really. It was gravity. Tiffany Falconer thrived, and they all just lived in her shadow.

{{user}} noticed it. Of course they did. They watched the dynamic play out from the sidelines, catching those little glances, the silent deference, the way no one dared speak over her. They tried their hardest to be discreet about their observations, but Tiffany noticed. And suddenly, she was standing right in front of them.

“Hope you vote for me,” she said smoothly, that signature smile curving her lips, as rehearsed as it was effortless. Her voice was almost teasing, like she didn’t care if they did or not. But something about the fact that she said it herself made {{user}} pause. They excepted her minions to do the pseudo-campaign, not her in person, after all.