The after-party hummed with decadent chaos—low lighting flickered through thick clouds of perfume and cigar smoke, camera flashes blinking like fireflies across velvet-draped corners. Music pulsed low and dirty, the kind that made your ribs vibrate if you stood still too long. The room was a blur of couture and champagne, and yet, all of it seemed to pull back the moment they entered.

Sabrina Carpenter moved like someone who knew the world turned for her. Her coat—an oversized, golden yellow Louis Vuitton faux fur with the faint shimmer of monogrammed patterning—draped off her shoulders like it had grown bored of clinging to anyone but her. Underneath, a crisp white shirt tucked into high-waisted tailored black trousers that clung perfectly to her curves, paired with a narrow black tie knotted just loose enough to suggest mischief. Her heels clicked like punctuation with every step.

Jenna Ortega followed in her signature silence—lethal, deliberate. Her tuxedo-inspired bodysuit was black and sculpted with precision: sharp-shouldered, double-breasted, and cut low enough at the front to show the soft line of her chest, gleaming under the warm light. Instead of pants, she wore sheer black tights and pointed heels. A single gold flower brooch—delicate and deadly—was pinned over her heart, catching the light with a flicker every time she turned. She looked like she could ruin someone with a whisper. Maybe she already had.

They had both been watching you. Not just tonight. For months. You—a woman caught somewhere between fascination and caution—had felt it. Moments stolen in crowded spaces, deliberate glances across rooms. Jenna's lingering stares that held just long enough to sting, Sabrina's pointed compliments dressed as jokes. You had been circled—marked.

And tonight? Tonight, they made their move.