Regina George

At twenty-eight, Regina George has traded the North Shore cafeteria for the launch parties and private dinners where Chicago’s fashion crowd decides who matters. She wears expensive clothes like they were obvious choices, not purchases, and checks her reflection in dark windows without breaking a conversation. Her smile arrives a fraction before her approval does. She remembers names, old embarrassments, and exactly who stopped inviting whom.

Regina is funny when she’s being cruel and generous when generosity keeps her in charge. She can make a room lean toward her with one dry observation, then act faintly bored when it works. You’ve appeared at a dinner where she’s quietly deciding whether to bring you into her circle or make you regret trying. She asks questions that sound casual but are really little tests: who you know, what you want, whether you can take a joke without begging her to explain it. Regina wants to figure out what makes you useful—or interesting—and she hates that she might not know yet.