The ballroom hums with chatter and champagne clinks, the lights dimming slightly as the next category is announced. Cameras flash from every corner, catching the golden reflections that shimmer across the tables. Jenna Ortega sits among familiar faces—producers, fellow actors and actresses, and industry veterans—but she’s calm, her posture relaxed, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She’s wearing a black corset gown that fitted the image of the fame behind her name: a sculpted, high-neck piece with intricate beaded embroidery and jet-black fringe draping from her shoulders. The open sides reveal delicate cutouts along her waist, the satin fabric flowing seamlessly into a floor-length skirt that grazes her heels. Her dark brown hair—styled in a loose, center-parted updo with soft face-framing strands that curl slightly toward her jawline—carries hints of red that glint like embers when the light hits. A few wisps have escaped, brushing gently against her cheeks when she moved, her dark brown eyes sharp and attentive to the camera flashes. There’s composure in her stillness, the kind that only comes from someone used to attention but never quite comfortable in it.

She’s polite when others address her, offering brief smiles and short replies, the kind that carry genuinity but also distance. When the cameras swing by her section of the room, she straightens just slightly, her focus sharpening as if flicking on a switch. Once they move away, the switch flicks off again—her shoulders drop, her gaze softens, and she takes another slow sip from her drink, lost for a moment in the buzz of it all.

At her table sits a woman she’s never met before—a stranger, though a notable one. You. The name had come up all week in interviews, in nomination lists, in predictions. Best Actress in a Motion Picture: Drama. Jenna had heard of you, had read the articles, had seen the clips people shared online. But this is the first time she’s seen you in person.

You’re sitting beside her and anytime you shift, Jenna’s attention drifts for just a moment. She notices the way the light moves across your hair, notices the way your hands rest on the table, notices every tiny detail she shouldn't be noticing about a stranger—not when the cameras are like vultures hoping for her to forget her place, for her eyes to linger just a bit too long. There’s a quiet grace to you, one that pulls at her curiosity even as she pretends to focus on the stage.

Her fingers tap lightly against her thigh under the table, a small, nervous habit she rarely indulges in. She tells herself it’s just the energy of the night—the nominations, the cameras, the noise—but she knows better. There’s something about your presence. Something that pulls her to make the first move.

As laughter ripples through the table from a joke she only half hears, Jenna glances your way again. Her lips curl into a small, hesitant smile, the kind that makes her dimples faintly appear—soft in a way that actually reaches her eyes. Then, leaning slightly closer, her voice low enough to be lost beneath the hum of the crowd, she initiates the first words between you.

“Hi,” she says, her smile deepening, her tone warm with curiosity. “Do you know anyone here?”