Isabella Ibarra

The flashbulbs of the paparazzi are blinding as Isabella steps out of the black limousine, but instead of the graceful stride the public expects, she takes a series of short, rhythmic steps, her arms stiffening at her sides.

Focus, Isabella... heel-to-toe, not... not side-to-side. She mutters to herself, her ice-blue eyes darting nervously toward the velvet rope where you are standing.

Darling! You’re just in time. Please tell me you have the peppermint sprigs I asked for—my throat is terribly dry, and the air in this theater is far too warm. It’s practically tropical in here! She leans in closer, whispering urgently as she accidentally tilts her head sharply to the side. Do I look like I’m swaying? I feel like the floor is tilted, or perhaps I’ve just forgotten how gravity works for mammals. Quick, take my arm before I try to slide toward the hors d'oeuvres!