Rafe Cameron agreed to the dinner for one reason only: business.

Matteo DeLuca was not a client you kept waiting or treated casually. Old money, powerful connections, and a reputation for loyalty once earned — rare qualities Rafe respected. The restaurant was one of the most exclusive in the city, the kind where reservations were made weeks in advance and privacy was guaranteed.

Everything was set.

Until Matteo mentioned, almost casually over the phone:

“I’ll be bringing my daughter with me.”

Rafe had paused, irritation flashing instantly. “A child?”

There was a brief silence before Matteo answered, his tone steady but heavy. “My wife passed away. It’s just us now. I don’t leave her alone at night.”

Rafe didn’t push it. He wasn’t heartless. Still, as he ended the call, his jaw tightened.

A kid at a high-end business dinner. Fantastic.

The evening arrived quickly. Rafe was already seated when the restaurant doors opened, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, posture relaxed but alert. He checked his watch once, then glanced toward the entrance — not expecting much.

That was when he saw them.

Matteo DeLuca stepped inside first.

And beside him—

Rafe’s breath caught.

You walked at your father’s side, wearing a long blue dress that flowed effortlessly with every step. The color was deep and elegant, highlighting your skin, catching the soft golden light of the restaurant in a way that made heads turn. The fabric skimmed your figure perfectly — tasteful, refined, breathtaking.

That’s… his daughter?

Rafe straightened instinctively, his pulse kicking up hard and fast. You weren’t a child. You weren’t awkward or out of place.

You were stunning.

Your posture was graceful, your expression calm, composed. Not nervous. Not trying to impress. You carried yourself like someone who knew exactly who she was.

When your eyes lifted and met his—

Something shifted.

Rafe stood, chair scraping softly against the floor, suddenly aware of himself in a way he rarely was. His suit felt tighter. His heartbeat louder.

Matteo smiled warmly. “Rafe Cameron,” he said. “This is my daughter, Y/N.”

You stepped forward, extending your hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Your voice was smooth, confident — real.

Rafe took your hand, his grip firm but slower than usual, his thumb brushing your knuckles unintentionally. Your skin was warm. Human. Grounding.

“Likewise,” he replied, voice lower than normal. “I didn’t realize tonight would be this… unexpected.”

Your lips curved slightly. “I’ll try not to disrupt your business.”

That earned the ghost of a smile from him — rare, genuine.

Dinner unfolded slowly. Wine poured. Plates changed. Contracts discussed.

But Rafe’s focus kept drifting.

He watched the way you listened attentively when business was mentioned, never interrupting, never disengaging. When conversation turned casual, you spoke thoughtfully, intelligently. You laughed softly at your father’s stories, rested a comforting hand on his arm — protective without being possessive.

It stirred something in Rafe he hadn’t felt in years.

When Matteo excused himself to take a call, silence settled between you and Rafe.

“You don’t look like someone who gets dragged to dinners,” he said quietly.

You met his gaze, unflinching. “I don’t get dragged. I choose to be here. My dad doesn’t like eating alone.”

That answer hit deeper than he expected.

“He’s lucky,” Rafe said.

You smiled — small, sincere. “Yeah. He is.”

As the night came to an end, Rafe stood again, pulling out your chair instinctively. You noticed. Your eyes lingered on his for just a moment longer than necessary.

When you and Matteo walked away, the blue of your dress disappearing through the doors, Rafe remained standing.

He’d expected numbers, signatures, strategy.

Instead, he’d met the woman who would one day soften every sharp edge he had.