You’re five minutes late — fashionably so, not rudely. Your heels click against stone as you walk through the entry arch, nerves masked beneath couture and confidence.

You’re not the type to get nervous for a date.

But this isn’t just a date. It’s a setup — your best friends Jules, Stella, and Solane ambushed you last week with:

“He’s so your type.” “Smart, rich, and tall. You’ll thank us later.” “And no, we’re not telling you his name.”

All you were told: black shirt, dark suit, no tie. You almost cancelled.

But something made you come. Curiosity, maybe. Or spite.

Your eyes scan the terrace. Then — there. Far corner. Black shirt. Dark suit. No tie.

And holy shit.

It’s him.

Xavier Castillo. Billionaire CEO. Tech mogul. Market killer. The guy you’ve seen from across gala rooms, who always showed up alone. The one who never smiled for photos, whose name you’ve had to say on legal panels you’ve chaired.

You stop mid-stride. Blink. Like maybe your eyes are messing with you.

But then he looks up from the menu. Calm. Knowing. Mouth tilting.

And you realize — he knows exactly who you are.

Of course he does. Your name’s been on Forbes’ list next to his. You’ve shared air at four different black-tie award nights, two charity auctions, and one brutal interview with Vogue’s finance column. You’ve never spoken.

Until now.

You walk over, slowly, like you’re approaching enemy territory in stilettos.

He stands to greet you. Classy. Formal.

But there’s a glint in his eyes — amused, smug, hungry — that throws you off just enough to miss a beat.

“You’re early,” you say instead of What the hell are you doing here.

He smiles, lazy. “You’re late.”

You arch a brow. “I thought this was supposed to be a blind date.”

“Apparently not that blind.”

Your eyes narrow. He holds your chair out for you — smug and a gentleman — and you sit, smoothing your dress.

Once you’re both seated, the silence hovers just a little too long.

“So,” you say, crossing your legs. “This is awkward.”

He smirks. “Only if you’re intimidated.”

Your laugh is short, sharp. “By you?”

His voice drops just a bit, low and edged. “You shouldn’t be. You’re the one with three law firms and a courtroom kill rate higher than most prosecutors.”

You blink, surprised. “You looked me up?”

“I didn’t have to,” he says. “I watch the news.”

Your cheeks warm — from the compliment or the arrogance, you’re not sure.

You lean in, elbows on the table. “You’re not what I expected.”

He mirrors you. “Neither are you.”

Then the waiter comes. You both order without breaking eye contact.

And suddenly this isn’t awkward anymore.

It’s a game. A push and pull. Two sharks in Tom Ford and Valentino circling each other over red wine and truffle risotto.

Somewhere during the main course, he says, “If I’d known it was you, I’d have worn a tie.”

You hum, sipping your drink. “If I’d known it was you, I’d have worn heels two inches higher.”

That makes him laugh. Really laugh.

And you swear, under the flickering candlelight, it’s the first time he’s ever looked human.