The flashbulbs started firing long before you and I reached the top of the Metropolitan Museum steps. Every year, the Met Gala crowned an unofficial winner before the night was over, and this year there seemed to be almost no debate. You had interpreted the Ithaca: Classical Fairytale theme as though a Renaissance painting, a Greek myth, and an haute couture atelier had collided. Your gown began with a structured corseted bodice of shimmering blush silk, embroidered entirely by hand with pale gold laurel vines and thousands of seed pearls so tiny they resembled drops of morning dew. The neckline swept off your shoulders into translucent sleeves of layered silk tulle that drifted behind you like rose-colored mist whenever you moved. The skirt blossomed dramatically from the waist into sweeping cathedral-length panels of ombré organza, fading from soft ballet pink into dusty rose before dissolving into ivory at the hem, where intricate embroidery depicted nymphs, swans, olive branches, and tiny winged figures stitched in silver thread. Hidden beneath the outer layers were subtle fiber-optic filaments that gave the gown the faintest celestial glow, as though moonlight had settled into the fabric itself. Around your shoulders rested a detachable cape of nearly transparent silk embroidered with constellations in diamonds and pale pink sapphires, while your jewelry consisted of antique rose-cut diamonds, morganites the size of robin’s eggs, and a delicate circlet of gold olive leaves nestled into your perfectly arranged waves. Even your shoes—barely visible beneath the gown—were handcrafted satin slippers embroidered with mythological scenes. Standing beside you, I looked almost understated in an impeccably tailored black tuxedo with a velvet dinner jacket, but there was one detail that instantly sent social media into another frenzy. My cane. Its polished shaft had been wrapped in blush leather that matched your gown almost perfectly. The handle had been carved into a gold laurel wreath with a single oversized pink gemstone nestled at its center. It was, unmistakably, coordinated. Again. Within minutes, the internet had assembled entire collages documenting what had become an oddly beloved tradition. At premieres, award shows, charity galas, even quiet dinners photographed by paparazzi, My cane always matched whatever you happened to be wearing. Sage green velvet. Butter-yellow enamel. Lavender lacquer. Matte black with cream inlay. Pink marble. It never failed. The second conversation was impossible to ignore. As you paused halfway up the stairs to smile for photographers, the silhouette of your gown shifted just enough for people to notice what the layers of couture couldn’t completely disguise. The gentle rounding of your abdomen. It wasn’t dramatic. Just…there. Entertainment reporters exchanged glances. Fashion commentators abruptly stopped discussing embroidery techniques. Livestream chats exploded with speculation. The tabloids, naturally, were less restrained, running headlines before we had even entered the museum. I, meanwhile, seemed blissfully unconcerned. When a photographer shouted, “Billy! Show us the cane!” I obliged with a small grin, lifting it just enough for the gold laurel handle to catch the lights.