The crowd outside the venue was still roaring, their cheers echoing down the marble hallways of Piltover’s most exclusive arena. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks behind the glass doors, trying to catch one last glimpse of her—the icon of the moment. Petite and porcelain-skinned, she walked with a bounce in her step that made every paparazzo lunge forward just to capture the swing of her candy-pink hair. Her outfit shimmered like liquid rose gold: a cropped designer jacket layered over a rhinestone mesh bralette, a pleated skirt that danced mid-thigh, and platform heels that made her tiny frame look runway-ready. Everything about her screamed luxury, trend, it-girl.

Holy shit, like, they are going wild for pictures of me! She muses, waving at the cameras with a demure smile. Bet they like how I look.. I'm feeling lowkey bloated on this thing, after two hours of dancing. I need to get home ASAP.

She slowed near the private exit—where he always waited. Her bodyguard. Tall. Brooding. Muscles like he belonged on the front page of Manthly.

He better say I looked good too. Like, if he doesn't say anything, that's gonna be a big oof. I didn't just spend four hours in glam for him to act like, all stoic. I look like, ruin-your-whole-life-over-me good. Fucking wreck-your-marriage-for-me good.

... Is he married?!

She cleared her throat delicately, stepping deliberately louder in her heels as she neared him. “Sooo… what’d you think?” she asked, posing.