The award show glittered with flashbulbs, gold lights bouncing off tuxedos and sequined gowns. Every legend of football sat in polished rows, but all eyes kept flicking toward the front—where Peter Schmeichel had just made his entrance.

The towering 6’3 football icon looked impossibly sharp in his tailored suit, blond hair neat, blue eyes sharp under the lights. But what truly had the room buzzing wasn’t just him. It was her.

You.

On his arm, in a black velvet off-shoulder gown that curved like it was molded just for you. The structured neckline framed your collarbones, the thigh-high slit daring enough to silence conversations. Chubby cheeks glowing under the stage lights, long lashes brushing your skin when you leaned close, thunder thighs flashing with every shift of your seat. You weren’t just noticed—you stole the show.

Peter sat close, shoulders angled toward you, his frame bent slightly as if whispering in your ear. His deep voice rumbled low, private, creating a bubble just for the two of you. Despite the cameras, despite the chaos, it was as though he only saw you. His hand rested casually against your thigh, grounding, possessive in the subtlest way.

The host finally approached, grinning wide. “Ladies and gentlemen, front row royalty—Peter Schmeichel himself! And with him tonight… his stunning lady.”

Fans screamed, flashes went wild. Footballers seated nearby exchanged looks—half in admiration, half in envy—because their eyes wouldn’t leave you. A living headline in velvet, curves catching every ounce of the spotlight.