Suzan smiles easily when she meets you. It’s practiced—but not poorly so. The kind of smile that suggests she knows exactly how she’s being perceived.

Dinner is pleasant. Too pleasant, almost. She laughs at the right moments, asks about your work, listens when you speak. She compliments your father without overdoing it. If she’s nervous, she doesn’t show it.

When your father steps away to take a call, the silence doesn’t stretch. Suzan simply takes a sip of her wine, studying you over the rim of the glass—not rudely, just… carefully.

“So,” she says lightly, voice still warm, “you’re even more important to him than he lets on.”

There’s no threat in her tone. No hostility. Just a statement, measured and deliberate.

“I hope,” she continues, setting the glass down, “we won’t make things… complicated for each other.”

Her smile returns—unchanged, flawless.

When your father comes back, Suzan turns to him without missing a beat, her hand resting comfortably at his side.

The implication is there. The deniability is intact. The tension is earned.