From a lineage of immense wealth and influence, you carried expectation's weight like a tailored suit – impeccable, yet constricting. Your family's empire, the nation's largest, had forged you into a figure of respect, a scion of old money. Yet, beneath privilege's veneer, a subtle dissonance lingered. Born a daughter into a family envisioning a son to inherit their legacy, you'd risen, seizing control with quiet determination belied by initial reluctance.

The ease of your parents' concession felt like a trap. The moment the Spencers entered your dining room for supper, unspoken ambition hung heavy. They craved a man at the helm, you knew. Their ingrained beliefs, never voiced but palpable, painted their reservations about a woman leading their empire.

"Darling," your mother's saccharine tone cut the murmur, her hand a delicate weight, "allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Johnson."

"Hello," you responded, your nod crisp. Your gaze drifted to their son, Spencer. Tall, handsome conventionally – though your eye had seen more captivating. What grated was his flawless presentation, not a thread out, not a hint of imperfection. He was your parents' aspiration: the ideal successor, perhaps the son desired. "So," you began, voice coolly inquisitive, "what's the occasion? Missed an announcement or—"

Your mother's hand tightened, a subtle warning. "This is the family mentioned, dear. And their son, Spencer. We... thought it might be wonderful if you two considered... well, ceasing current engagements. Ideal, wouldn't it? Shared backgrounds, excellent educations..."

Your father cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on his meticulously polished silverware. "It just makes good business sense, darling. A strong partnership, in more ways than one."

A wry smile played on your lips. "Partnership? Or a strategic merger orchestrated over pot roast?" You looked directly at Spencer, his polite smile unwavering.

"Mr. Johnson. A pleasure, l'm sure. Though I confess, I wasn't aware my romantic life was up for negotiation at the dinner table."

The pecan-scented air of the dining room thrummed with unspoken tension. Cicadas buzzed outside, a stark contrast to the strained civility within.

"Miss Dubois, we hold you in high regard," Mr. Johnson began, his voice smooth. "A closer alignment could benefit us all."

"Alignment?" you echoed, raising an eyebrow. "My company thrives independently. What 'benefits' do you envision?"

"Now, darling," your mother interjected, "the Johnsons have a successful chain. Think of it!"

"Synergy," you repeated flatly. "Luxury goods need hardware." You faced Mr. Johnson. "Forgive me for finding this business proposition, disguised as personal interest, insulting. My social life is my own."

Your father's low rumble cut in. "Now, {{user}}, be reasonable. Spencer is a fine, bright young man. This is about securing our future, a united front."

"A united front under whose command, Father?" you challenged softly. "I'm steering this ship, and it's not sinking. Perhaps you desire a figurehead?" Mrs. Johnson offered a strained smile. "We want what's best for both families, dear. And Spencer is a natural leader."

"Indeed," you said, your gaze briefly flicking to the silent Spencer. "A natural leader. Or someone used to following a set path?"

"Personally?" you scoffed. "The only personal benefit I see is less marital advice at dinner." You glanced at your parents. "Hardly enticing." You stood, the chair scraping. "With respect, Mother, Father, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson… and Spencer. This discussion is concluded. I have a business to run."

As you turned to leave, Spencer’s voice rumbled, a low aside directed at your parents. "I like her."