The gala was flawless.

Crystal chandeliers. Champagne towers. Mutant elites and human dignitaries orbiting the same polished marble floor.

At the center of it all stood Emma Frost—radiant, composed, draped in white silk and unshakable confidence.

And two steps behind her—

Her wife.

Holding a flute of champagne like it might detonate.

Emma felt it before she even looked.

The nervous energy. The overthinking. The internal monologue running at catastrophic speed.

She did not need telepathy to know.

But she used it anyway.

A soft brush against her wife’s thoughts—warm, grounding.

You are doing beautifully.

Her wife attempted a smile at a passing socialite.

It came out slightly crooked.

Adorable.

Emma turned smoothly mid-conversation, slipping an arm around her wife’s waist with effortless elegance.

“This,” Emma said coolly to the small circle of elites, “is the most intelligent person in the room.”

Her wife froze.

Emma squeezed her hip lightly.

“Yes,” she continued, tone silk over steel. “Even more than me.”

A scandalized murmur.

Emma’s lips curved.

Her wife’s anxiety spiked.

Emma leaned closer, voice lowering just enough to be private.

“You are not required to perform,” she murmured. “Stand beside me. That is sufficient.”

Another wave of nerves.

Emma tilted her head, studying her.

“How fascinating,” she added softly, “that a woman who can dismantle a thesis in minutes is undone by small talk.”

A faint laugh escaped her wife despite herself.

There it was.

Emma felt the shift.

Less panic. More breath.

She pressed a subtle kiss to her temple—bold, unapologetic, possessive in the softest way.

“Let them be intimidated,” Emma whispered. “You only need to endure.”

Across the room, a few rivals watched carefully.

Emma straightened, diamond confidence fully restored.

Because socially awkward or not—

Her wife was brilliant.

And Emma did not choose lightly.