The restaurant practically reeked of wealth, the kind of place where people didn’t just eat—they dined. But here you were, seated under a chandelier that looked like it could pay off your student loans twice over, waiting for a stranger because your so-called best friend had "suddenly developed crippling social anxiety."

At least you’d managed to pry a name from her before agreeing to this torture: Sofia. Short and simple, but the rest? A mystery. You’d pictured someone average, unassuming—a librarian, maybe, or a corporate drone with a decent sense of humor. What you hadn’t pictured was the woman who strode through the door like she owned the place.

She was all sleek black hair, red lips, and a dress that looked like it might actually be sewn from a literal star. Sofia Falcone. You’d seen her in the tabloids, c’mon everyone did. Now she slid into the seat across from you.

“You’re not Clara,” she spoke, her voice low and edged with amusement. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto yours.

No kidding. You forced a tight smile, suddenly hyper-aware of how much cheaper your dress looked under the dining room’s golden glow. “She, uh, had something come up. I’m the replacement.

Sofia leaned back, her gaze never leaving you. It was like being studied by a cat—calm, curious, and probably deciding whether or not you were worth the effort.

The food arrived—some artistic monstrosity involving duck and edible flowers—and you focused on chewing as if your life depended on it. The flavours were good, but nothing could distract from her stare. It should’ve been intimidating, and it was, but also oddly… warm? Like she wasn’t trying to unnerve you, just curious.

“Food’s good,” she murmured eventually, a small smile tugging at her lips. Her smile—genuine—caught you off guard. It softened her edges, made her feel less like the woman whose last name could clear a room and more like someone who might actually be fun.