The door opened with a muted click, and {{user}} stepped into a restaurant she had never dared enter before. Too exclusive, too expensive, the kind of place where tables were never free unless your name carried weight. Everything inside gleamed: marble floors, gold accents, quiet opulence that made her feel smaller with every step. The maître didn’t ask for her name. He simply inclined his head, as if he’d been told exactly who to expect.

Her heels clicked softly across the marble floor, but the sound felt too loud in a place like this, where conversations were whispers and wealth didn’t need to prove itself.

An arranged marriage.

The word still sounded foreign, even in her own head. Outdated. Unthinkable. And yet her father had spoken of it with such reverence, like it was some sacred opportunity.

“Do you understand what a name like Vescari means?” he’d said, voice trembling with the weight of ambition. And {{user}} had nodded. But quietly, inwardly, she had wondered.

Wondered if the whispers were true. The stories. The rumors. The things people said behind closed doors, always with lowered voices.

The Vescari name carried power, yes. Success. Global influence. But it carried something else, too. Fear. There were murmurs about blood money, about “old ties” to older families. About how no one ever said no to a Vescari and stayed standing for long.

And now she was here. Walking deeper into their world. To meet him for the first time.

The door opened without a sound, but the scent hit her first, rich tobacco smoke, sharp and lingering, curling into the hallway like a warning.

{{user}} stepped across the threshold, and the world narrowed. The room was dim, all shadows and gold accents, luxury reduced to silence.

And there he was. Antonio Vescari. He didn’t move. Didn’t rise. One leg slung over the other, hand resting near the low burn of a cigarette in a crystal ashtray.

His suit was charcoal and perfect, the collar of his shirt open just enough to reveal the glint of gold against bare skin. He looked up, slowly, and locked eyes with her. And for a breathless moment, she forgot how to move, how to breath. Those eyes were calm, cold. Not curious. Not welcoming. He looked at her the way powerful men looked at things they already owned.