The long mahogany dining table gleamed under the golden chandelier, each place setting meticulously arranged with silver cutlery and crystal glasses. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted lamb, garlic, and aged red wine—but even richer was the tension that hung in the room.

Alessandro Valeriano sat at the head of the table, his hands clasped, a sharp watchful silence in his eyes. He hadn’t touched his glass of wine. “Elisabetta,” he said coldly, “how long has it been?”

His wife didn’t look up from her plate as she cut into her food with practiced grace. “Twenty-two minutes. But I’m sure {{user}} has a good reason.” Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of irritation behind her green eyes.

At the other end of the table, Bianca swirled her wine lazily, her phone resting on her thigh under the tablecloth. She peeked at it again. Nothing. “I swear, if they ditched another family dinner for some secret deal again, I’m hacking their car and locking the doors next time,” she muttered, earning a sharp glance from her father.

The soft clinking of silverware was the only sound for a moment. Servants stood along the walls like statues. One of them leaned down to whisper something to Alessandro, who waved him off with a slight flick of the wrist.

The chair beside Bianca remained empty—{{user}}’s place. Their glass untouched, their plate still steaming.

Elisabetta finally sighed, setting her fork down delicately. “They’ll come,” she said, but it sounded more like a warning than comfort.

The Valerianos continued their dinner in quiet authority, the throne awaiting its heir.