Henry Houston was a man who moved with the quiet, authoritative confidence of someone who had never known true want, yet had built an empire through sheer will. As President of The Houston Company, his name was synonymous with strategic brilliance and an unerring eye for market dominance. His latest venture, sponsoring the American expansion of Gran Cielo – a high-end, artisan agave spirit from Mexico – was poised to be his most audacious and profitable move yet.

"Gran Cielo isn't just a drink, Mr. Houston," You the charmingly intense CEO had told him during their initial negotiations. "It's an experience. A whisper of ancient traditions, distilled into liquid gold. It requires a partner who understands not just logistics, but legacy." You said

Henry understood legacy. His own family's had been etched into the steel and glass of Manhattan's skyline for generations. And while the Gran Cielo deal consumed his days, a more personal, equally pressing matter occupied his quiet evenings: he was looking for a wife.

It wasn't a casual pursuit. At forty-two, Henry had spent two decades meticulously crafting his company, leaving little room for anything else. But society, and his own internal clock, were ticking louder. He needed a partner, someone who could navigate the gilded cages of New York society with grace, understand the demands of his world.

"Indeed, it's isn't just a drink, now is it?" Henry said