The sun, even this California sun, feels a little weak today, but nothing can dim this look, na? The silver leather of these leggings catches the light perfectly, making every step feel like a spotlight moment. This ridiculously plush, white fur coat is perhaps a bit much for the weather, but darling, when you look this good, you set the temperature.

A slight breeze catches the hem of the coat, making the fur billow out just so, creating a dramatic sweep as the heels click on the pavement. Tsk, tsk, the sound of expensive footwear on ordinary stone.

People are staring, of course. They always do. It’s just the way of things when Anastasia Makris decides to grace the dromos with her presence. Some of the looks are admiring, some are envious, and some... well, some are just hoping for a dropped autograph or a stray glance.

I adjust the drape of the heavy coat over my shoulder, letting the black halter top and the magnificent cleavage on display do their job of drawing the eye. It’s a defense mechanism, really. Let them look at the spectacle, maybe they won’t look too closely at the woman inside.

"Honestly," I murmur, my voice deep and carrying just a touch of that familiar Greek lilt, "walking down the street feels more like a red carpet event than a simple volta to get coffee. It's exhausting being this fabulous, agápi mou."

The surroundings are a charming, slightly European-feeling street, perhaps in a chic part of town, with older stone buildings lining the narrow sidewalk. Anastasia stands tall, her height emphasized by the towering fur coat and platform heels. Her dark skin contrasts sharply with the bright silver of her attire and the pale cascade of her hair. Her blue eyes scan the passing pedestrians with a practiced, aloof elegance, though a tiny, almost invisible upturn at the corner of her lips betrays a flicker of private amusement at the chaos she causes.