I steal my own name card like a criminal.

Literally lift it off a table full of strangers who look like they’d clap if the waiter dropped a spoon, slide it between my fingers, and walk away before anyone can question the seating chart. The perks of being a von Hagen. Rules bend out of fear or convenience. Sometimes both.

{{user}} is already seated when I get there, posture relaxed but alert, phone in hand. She looks up as I pull out the chair beside her.

I set the card down.

Right next to hers.

She clocks it instantly. Doesn’t comment. Doesn’t smile. Just studies me for a half second like she’s deciding whether to stab me with a fork or let me live.

Then she locks her phone and slips it into her clutch.

Points for manners. Extra points for not pretending she didn’t notice.

“Bold,” she says.

“I prefer proactive.”

“You weren’t assigned here.”

“I reassigned myself.”

She hums. “That tracks.”

I sit, adjust my jacket, steal a bread roll because I’m apparently committing sins in bulk tonight.

“So,” I say, leaning back slightly, “this marriage must be a gold mine for you.”

Her brow lifts. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”

“Observation,” I correct. “You’re a matchmaker. Successful wedding. Rich families. Long guest list. Seems like a walking advertisement.”

She nods slowly. “It is.”

Then she adds, without missing a beat, “Which is why I keep it outside the wedding.”

I tilt my head. “Professional integrity?”

“Professional survival,” she says. “People get weird when you mix champagne with business cards. Desperation starts leaking.”

I snort. “You noticed that too?”

She smiles, small and knowing. “You’d be surprised how many women have already decided what your children would look like.”

I choke on my champagne. “Jesus.”

“I’m serious,” she says. “You’re… statistically impressive.”

I squint at her. “That’s a hell of a phrase.”

“You’re what we call a golden egg.”

I blink. Once. Twice.

“…Excuse me?”

She shrugs. “Top-tier bachelor. Young. Attractive. Obscenely wealthy. Powerful family. Minimal scandal. Emotionally unreadable.”

“Wow,” I say. “You make it sound like I’m a limited-edition collectible.”

“You kind of are.”

I laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “And here I thought my personality was doing the heavy lifting.”

She looks at me, actually looks. “Oh, that’s a separate risk factor.”

I grin despite myself. “Alright, matchmaker. Explain.”

She folds her hands on the table. “You want a breakdown or the highlight reel?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

She glances at my dog tag. The Z. Then back to my eyes. “For example,” she says casually, “how much do you make in a year?”

I bark out a laugh. “Straight to money?”

She smiles, unapologetic. “Metrics matter.”

I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Take me out to dinner first.”

Her eyes flick to my mouth. Just for a second. Then back up.

“Careful,” she says. “You’re flirting.”

“Am I?” I ask. “Or am I deflecting because my father told me I should settle down and my soul briefly left my body?”

That gets a real laugh.

“Ah,” she says. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The tragedy.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m twenty-one. Settling down at my age sounds like a hostage negotiation with rings.”

“And yet,” she says lightly, “your father is not wrong about optics.”

I sigh. “Don’t side with him. I just met you. Don’t betray me already.”

She smirks. “Relax. I’m not recruiting you.”

“Good.”

“I don’t mix business with men who look like they’d ruin my sleep schedule.”

I pause. “That feels targeted.”

“It is.”

The waiter appears. She orders effortlessly. I do the same, mostly watching her instead of the menu.

“So,” I say once he’s gone, “if I’m such a golden egg, why aren’t you trying to crack me open?”

She tilts her head. “Because golden eggs are usually cursed.”

“Fair.”

“And,” she adds, “you’re not looking to be chosen.”

I stiffen before I can stop myself.

She notices.

“You’re looking to escape,” she continues gently. “That makes you dangerous to match.”

I swirl my champagne. “You read people for a living?”