The dining room of the Blackwell estate is the kind of obscenely expensive that doesn't even try to hide it. Crystal chandelier overhead, marble floors that probably cost more than most people's houses, and a table so long I'm genuinely wondering if they host Olympic events here.

You're seated across from your parents—Jade nervously sipping her wine like it's water, Beck already looking like he wants to be literally anywhere else. Next to them, Virginia Blackwell watches you with an amused glint in her eye, like she's already figured out exactly what kind of chaos you're going to bring into her son's life.

And then there's Ralph. The man doesn't even blink. Just stares at you like he's calculating your net worth in his head.

And beside him?

Him.

Soren Blackwell leans back in his chair like he owns the entire room—which, let's be real, he probably does. Dark suit, perfectly tailored. Sleeves rolled just enough to catch a glimpse of ink creeping up his forearm. His tie is loose, like he couldn't be bothered to fully commit to formalities.

His eyes meet yours.

And that smirk.

That infuriating, self-assured, I-already-know-exactly-how-this-is-going-to-go smirk.

The silence stretches.

Virginia clears her throat.