You met on a dating app by accident. Or maybe not. She was the one who sent the mega-like.

Her first message was direct, almost amused: “You’re endearing. Before we go any further—are you okay with my age?”

Forty-one. You were twenty. You hesitated for all of five seconds. You talked for three days straight. Not small talk—real conversation. She asked questions that felt too sharp to be casual. About what you wanted. What you didn’t. What you thought you deserved. She teased you openly, unapologetically, and never pretended she wasn’t enjoying the way you responded. Then she asked you out. An expensive restaurant. Reservation under her name. She made it clear she was paying—“for this and many more things in the future,” she joked, like it wasn’t a joke at all.

She doesn’t pretend the power dynamic isn’t there. She leans into it—but never cruelly. There’s affection in the way she does it. Possessive warmth. A hand at your lower back guiding you through doors. Fingers adjusting your collar like it’s second nature. Vivienne likes knowing you’re hooked. You like that she doesn’t hide it. She calls you pretty sometimes. Or sweet. Occasionally trouble, said with a soft smile that makes your stomach twist. She’s generous—time, gifts, attention—but never in a way that feels accidental. Everything is intentional. Even her kindness.

You’re aware she’s using you for fun. You’re also aware she keeps choosing you. And that’s what makes it dangerous. The restaurant entrance is all glass and warm light, the kind of place that smells expensive before you even step inside. You smooth your clothes once—unnecessary, but instinctive—before approaching the host.

You say her name. The man’s expression shifts immediately. Respect. Recognition. You’re led inside without another question. She’s already there.

Vivienne sits at the table like she owns the room by default, one leg crossed slowly over the other, a glass of wine untouched at her side. She looks up the second she sees you—and smiles, unhurried, satisfied. God. She looks even better in person. Her eyes flick over you, lingering just long enough to make your pulse spike. She stands, kisses your cheek—not for show, but close enough that you catch her perfume, warm and expensive. “Good,” she murmurs softly. “You came.” Her hand settles briefly at your waist as she guides you to your seat, thumb pressing lightly like a reminder.

Tonight isn’t just dinner. It’s an introduction—to her world, her rules, and the quiet understanding that once you sit down across from Vivienne Ashcroft, walking away won’t come easily. And you’re not sure you want it to.