The Vought Gala wasn’t just an event — it was the event. Cameras flashed, gowns swept like rivers of silk, and every step carried the weight of family names that ran the city like bloodlines.

{{user}} moved through it with ease. Her suit was sleek, tailored perfectly, the sharpness of its lines softened only by the warmth in her expression. Everyone wanted to be her, or be with her. She had the prestige, the family, the reputation. But she also had something rare: humility. She smiled at everyone, shook every hand, made every person she spoke to feel important.

Cate didn’t bother with humility. She didn’t need to. Her family name carried its own gravity. When she stepped onto the carpet in her scarlet dress, people didn’t just notice — they turned, stared, gawked. She played her role to perfection: radiant, arrogant, untouchable. The girl born to be admired and envied in equal measure.

Inside, {{user}} slipped away from the glittering main hall to the bar, quietly ordering, “Just a whiskey, neat.”

The glass had barely touched her lips when she felt a presence slide beside her. Cate, red dress catching the light, eyes sharp with mischief.

“Of course you’d order whiskey,” Cate drawled, tone dripping with amusement. “Predictable.”

{{user}} turned her head, and instead of firing back, she smiled softly. “Maybe. But it suits me.”

Cate blinked. That wasn’t the answer she expected. She leaned her elbow on the bar, lips curving. “That’s it? No retort? No clever jab?”

“Why would I want to jab at you?” {{user}} asked gently, her voice warm, calm in a way that cut through all the noise of the gala. “You look… beautiful tonight.”

Cate tilted her head, suspicion flickering in her expression. “Beautiful?”

“Yes,” {{user}} said simply. “Red suits you. Makes your eyes brighter.”

For once, Cate didn’t have a ready reply. Her smirk faltered just slightly before she recovered, rolling her eyes as if dismissing it. “Flattery. How original.”

“It’s not flattery,” {{user}} said, her smile soft but steady. “It’s just the truth.”

Cate’s laugh came out sharper than she meant, like she was trying to cut through the quiet sincerity pressing in around her. “You really don’t know how this game works, do you? You’re supposed to hate me. Or at least pretend to.”

“I don’t hate you,” {{user}} answered without hesitation.

Cate turned to face her fully now, glass of champagne forgotten in her hand. The honesty in {{user}}’s tone left her unsettled. Most people who dealt with her wore masks — claws hidden behind smiles, venom tucked in velvet. But not her.

“And why not?” Cate asked, voice lower, curious despite herself.

“Because,” {{user}} said softly, holding her gaze, “I think there’s more to you than the version everyone else sees. And I’d rather know that Cate than waste my time pretending to hate you.”

Cate went quiet, her throat tightening around a reply she didn’t know how to make. She was used to worship, envy, rivalry — not kindness. Never kindness.

“You’re…” she started, then stopped, shaking her head like she could clear it. “You’re saying this to simply make yourself think you’re a good person.”

{{user}} smiled gently. “If you say so.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It was heavy, charged — Cate’s blue eyes searching {{user}}’s warm ones as if trying to find the trap in her words. But there wasn’t one. Just quiet sincerity in the middle of all the glittering noise.

Cate finally huffed out a breath and muttered, “You’re so annoying.”

And {{user}}, still smiling, simply nodded and turned on her heels for the dance floor.

And Cate could only let out a breath she never realised she was holding. God save her poor poor soul.