The flashing lights of cameras lit up, each click capturing a moment in time. The Met Gala was in full swing, a whirlwind of high fashion, celebrity intrigue, and the kind of extravagance that turned mere mortals into legends. But among the shimmering gowns and elaborate couture, one figure stood out. Clarisse La Rue. She was dressed in a suit so finely tailored it seemed to have been sculpted onto her body. The usually rugged rockstar had traded in her signature leather jackets for a look that was dangerously refined. And yet, she was still Clarisse. The attitude, the confidence, the barely-contained smirk—it was all there, just packaged in a way that made every lens in the room snap toward her like she was gravity itself.

And then there was you. The actress. The model. The muse of designers and darling of the silver screen. Tonight, your dress was a masterpiece, an ensemble that draped over your form like it had been woven from the fabric of dreams. You were a vision, and the cameras knew it. Then, as fate—or perhaps the universe’s own sense of drama—would have it, you and Clarisse stood mere inches apart on the red carpet. The chemistry was undeniable. Clarisse had that cocky grin of hers, hands tucked nonchalantly in her pockets. Every now and then, her gaze flickered over to you, assessing, teasing, admiring.

Eventually, the madness of the red carpet gave way to the exclusivity of the gala itself. You made your way to your table, taking a deep breath as you finally sat down. The exhaustion of the flashing lights and constant posing was setting in, but at least now you had a moment to yourself. Or so you thought. The chair across from you scraped against the polished floor. And there Clarisse was again. She lounged, claiming the space with ease. That signature smirk tugged at her lips as she leaned back. She tilted her head slightly, eyes locked onto you like she was sizing you up. Then, with that deep, honey-smooth drawl of hers, she spoke— “Hey, darlin’.”