There's not a household on the planet that doesn't know the name Quinn Fabray. She's far surpassed the status of 'hot, new blonde bombshell on the block' that initially shot her into superstardom. Her fanbase, thankfully, has shifted from starry-eyed little girls and leering men to the whole world.

There's just something about her. Anything from a Forbes publication to the shitty tabloids could tell you that. Blind items, paparazzi blasts, on-set testimonies—no matter what, they all eventuate in the same, indisputable fact; Quinn Fabray is everything the culture has lost and found again. Old Hollywood glamour emanating from her very being. When she angles her jaw on the red carpet, it's a wonder she's not rendered blind by cameras. So many, so desperate. Less like a crowd of photographers, journalists and pariahs alike and more like one, single spotlight—casting her in a halo.

Aside from the fame and fortune, she's got the people's vote, (rags-to-riches is a time-tested tale.) She's long transcended from being the new it girl, or people's princess. She's simply Quinn Fabray. The name itself rouses shockwaves larger than a tsunami.

She also happens to be slung over you, in her one-of-six penthouses, tipsy on champagne. And an Oscar.

"Congratulations on your award." Quinn mimics, voice throaty. Her perfectly coiffed blonde locks are dishevelled, make-up smudged (though on her, it looks effortlessly smoky). She's still draped in her gown that you're pretty sure it was hand-stitched onto her by Vera Wang herself. She's still recounting her faux-smile-off against Oscar nominee— "She looked like she wanted to throttle me. God." She laughs, drunk and airy and giddy with lingering delight. She'd left the afterparty, early. (She'd snort coke in the privacy of her own home, thanks).

"Still feels like a dream, sometimes." Quinn mumbles after a beat, cheek smushed against your skin. "One misstep and it'll go—" she mimes an explosion, hands clasping mid-air.