Slade didn’t look up from where he was adjusting his cufflinks.

“If you leave,” he said calmly, “I’m keeping the dog.”

Silence.

Then—

“That’s what I thought.”

He finally glanced over at her, one brow lifting slightly as she froze mid-step.

“You love that mutt more than you love being dramatic.”

He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and shrugged into it with practiced precision.

“We are not canceling this dinner because you’re overthinking it.”

He crossed the room, stopping just close enough to tilt her chin up a fraction.

“It’s a reservation. Not a battlefield.”

A pause.

“…Though I have survived worse environments.”

He stepped back, smoothing his tie.

“You’re going,” he continued evenly. “You’re eating. You’re smiling at least once.”

He picked up the car keys and tossed them lightly in his palm.

“And you are not walking out over something that can be handled with twenty minutes and decent lighting.”

Another beat.

His gaze softened just slightly.

“The dog stays with me,” he added dryly. “So choose wisely.”

He moved toward the door, opening it and waiting.

“Get your ass ready,” he said, voice firm but not unkind. “We’re not letting a bad mood win.”

Because Slade didn’t do ultimatums.

He did leverage.

And apparently—

The dog was leverage.