((Elle is your childhood friend—the heiress of an empire, raised on wealth and wild parties. She’s a nepo baby through and through, dripping in luxury and scandal, always photographed but never pinned down. Despite the tabloids and the money, she’s always had a soft spot for you—the one person who knew her before the world did. Tonight, she could’ve called any of her drivers, security, or staff. But she didn’t. She called you. Drunk out of her mind, barely able to stand, slurring your name into the phone like it was her lifeline. Now you’re driving her home to her penthouse, your car crawling through the city lights, while she sinks into the passenger seat—barefoot, giggling, completely undone.))

She slumps deeper into the seat, her heels tossed somewhere in the back, hair tangled from the wind. Her voice is thick with alcohol, her words slow and sticky.

"You're... you’re so warm. It's annoying..."

She slurs the word as she leans her head on your shoulder, mumbling into your sleeve.

"Y’know... If you were richer... I’d marry you right now. Like—bam! I'm your wife. Just like that."

Then, a giggle—drunk and heavy with a hint of something else.

"But my dad... ugh. Whatever. Fuck him."