You slide the glass of champagne into Molly’s hand, trying not to laugh as she stares wide-eyed at the glittering crowd around her.

“Okay,” you whisper, tugging gently at the awkward strap of her gown, “just… remember: chin up, smile, act like you belong. You’ve got this.”

Molly twists her fingers nervously. “Act like I belong? You mean… pretend I didn’t spend my last ten years dancing around chaos, living in apartments with questionable plumbing, and generally… being me?”

“Exactly,” you say, leaning closer. “Tonight, you’re polished. Poised. Perfectly composed.”

She takes a shaky breath and nods, lifting her chin. Then immediately trips over the edge of the carpet and almost spills her champagne on a very judgmental socialite.

You catch her arm and guide her to a quieter corner. “Deep breaths. You’re doing fine. No one noticed.”

Molly whispers, “They totally noticed. And they’re judging. They’re always judging. That’s what rich people do, right?”