The breakup had been as toxic as the relationship itself—a symphony of shouting, blame, and words sharpened specifically to scar. By the time you’d finally walked away, you’d been expertly cast as the villain, as if every crack in the foundation was your fault alone. Four months of silence, therapy, and aggressively cheerful friends later, you were standing outside a restaurant called ‘The Gilded Fork’ in a little black dress your friends had literally shoved you into. Their logic was bulletproof: it would help you “get back out there.” After weeks of inventive excuses, you’d finally agreed to the blind date. Not out of hope, but because their nagging had reached a frequency only dogs and the deeply annoyed could hear.