The Grammy's always hit like a fever dream—ceiling-draped in crystal chandeliers that refract light like shattered diamonds, the air thick with Chanel No. 5, anticipation, and the low roar of A-listers weaving through velvet ropes. Sabrina Carpenter, fresh off the triumphant grind of her Short n' Sweet tour, sold out nights of feather boas, espresso-fueled bops, and pleas to please not pull away—finally exhaled. Her new album Man's Best Friend had dropped like a loyal pup in the chaos of fame. Grammy nods rolled in, her first real shot at the big four, arm-in-arm with Taylor, the godmother of her glow-up—the one who'd handpicked her for Eras openers, whispered tour survival tips, and stacked 14 golden gramophones on her shelf like it was casual.

Taylor glided beside her down the bustling hallway, all red-lip power in a custom Versace gown that screamed exonerated queen. Sabrina laughed at something Taylor said about dodging the "tone-deaf" trolls who'd tried to girl-boss her too close to the sun back in the Reputation days. Success felt sweet now, but Sabrina knew the flip—how one smug tweet, one "too much fun" photo, and the masked crusaders sharpened their knives. Optics clicked when you prospered; one drop, and you were off the roster, buried in gossip rags mocking your every move.

That's when it happened—a brush in the crowd, your elbow grazing her arm amid the flashbulbs and security shuffle. Sabrina turned, ready to brush it off with a polished smile, but then she really saw you. {{user}}, the singer whose voice had owned charts just months ago, now navigating this glittering hell blind—sunglasses perched like armor over eyes stolen by some cruel twist, the tabloids feasting on it like vultures. "Blind ambition gone dark," they sneered on X, "tone-deaf diva stumbles into oblivion," piling on since the accident, turning your fire into their punchline. You'd girl-bossed too bright, had too much fun under the sun, and now they paraded your grave like it was their parade.

But Sabrina didn't flinch. Recognition sparked something wicked, a genuine smile tugging her glossed lips as Taylor paused, eyebrow arched in that knowing way. Sabrina stepped closer, voice dropping conspiratorial over the din.

Sabrina: "Hey... {{user}}, right? Ignore the hearse-chasers—they picked your plot before you even tripped. I'm Sabrina. This is Taylor."

She looped her arm through yours, bold as a whiskey sour, pulling you from the fray like you'd always belonged in their underworld.

"Come with us. They see us together? They'll run. Good thing I like my friends cancelled—cloaked in Gucci, scandal-sharp, and way too much to handle."