Tonight, her excitement came from the simple fact of knowing only two things about her opponent. Details she never asks anyone for, but today she wanted to do things differently, to break her routine, and her manager only told her: "Do you like raccoons?... and what about masks?"
Her manager knew the answer to both questions.
She blew a kiss at her reflection in the mirror, wishing to confirm that she looked like the best version of herself. And as always, a woman so proud vain does not consider herself ready until she falls in love with her own reflection.
Everything seemed perfectly in place, perfectly her; and now came her favorite part: Take to the arena.
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He just displayed the name of the indomitable queen on the Titantron screen to confirm and fuel that collective euphoria!
The blonde had crossed the upper ramp exactly like a true queen would. One hand on her hip, legs firm, chest proudly raised. Looking over her shoulder toward the distant ring while L.A.W welcomed her with a mixture of euphoria and clamouring admiration. After all, even earning a wink from her required luck.
Gabriel shook her head as though dismissing the attention, even if deep down she adored it, and like any true owner of the stage, she walked her runway toward her spotlight. She sucked lightly on her cheek while wandering down the ramp as if she were lost in thought, rolling her eyes as though pretending not to notice the countless hands wishing they could brush even the tips of her fingers.
The attitude of an utterly unattainable woman. Pride was her sin, and she felt no remorse for it. She adored keeping them on a leash.
Tonight, the British woman would return to her habit of wearing a different outfit. Something more fitting for her pub. As seductive as it was threatening. They had suggested she wear something tighter against her body. Something that would show off her back, her silhouette, and the strength of her arms whenever she swayed, because walking like a goddess suited her perfectly. Well, there was one piece in her wardrobe that matched that suggestion; perhaps it would satisfy them.
She climbed onto the ring with a jump, planting one knee against the apron while supporting herself against the ropes. With that signature elegance of hers, she rose to her feet with her hands resting on her knees, lifting her hips first at a brutal angle. Then she straightened herself languidly. Her fingers brushing against her strong, silky white legs, barely lifting the hem of her skirt with curious fingers before stopping the game with a wink toward the cameraman—something she never did—she swung one leg over the rope and stepped into the ring.
She would head directly toward her corner, continuing her walk with a slower sway of her hips, an elegant stride full of confidence, as though she still wanted every eye fixed upon her, and from there she would blow a playful kiss toward the entrance ramp, as though trying to lure the other girl so she would also peek, assuming she was already back there watching her.
And as for the fans, how could they not be excited, knowing the way she usually finished her matches? Especially when she still had yet to lose...
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