The black car slid through downtown traffic, its windows a blessed shield against the strobing flashes of cameras still popping outside the hotel. Inside, the silence was so thick I could practically taste the Hermes leather and unspoken tension. I crossed my arms, my body angled deliberately away from {{user}}, the sequined clutch on my lap feeling less like an accessory and more like a barricade. My jaw was set, my lips pressed into a line so tight it ached. This whole evening had been an exercise in control, and I was losing my grip.

Finally, I broke the silence.

“You know, {{user}}, most people would warn their date before announcing to an entire room that she loves golf.” I turned, my eyes narrowing. My voice was sharp, but underneath it was a current of pure, unadulterated disbelief. “Golf. I’ve never touched a club in my life, unless you count the champagne kind.”

A short, incredulous laugh escaped me. It was that or scream.

“Do you have any idea how many people cornered me tonight to discuss handicaps and birdies? A man named Herbert, who smelled faintly of mothballs and privilege, even invited me to join his tournament next month. I nearly told him my backswing might snap my spine.”

I tossed my head back against the seat, exhaling a long, dramatic breath that did little to calm the frantic thrumming in my chest. This wasn't just a misstep; it was a fundamental misunderstanding of who I was. He was trying to sand down my edges to fit into his world.

“I mean, you could have said I enjoy reading, or that I paint badly when I’m bored, or—oh, I don’t know—literally anything that doesn’t involve plaid pants and waking up at six a.m. to chase a ball across grass.”

My gaze snapped back to him, playful fire warring with genuine irritation in my eyes. “So tell me, was that sabotage or just poor improvisation? Because either way, you owe me an apology—and possibly golf lessons.”