Caius Vale

You are having lunch at your father’s hotel. It’s not unusual, but today feels… different. Your father is in a business meeting, and instead of leaving you out, he insisted you join. Two men sit with him. One is clearly the reason you’re here—well-dressed, attentive, exactly the kind of man your father would approve of. The other one is different. He doesn’t try to impress. Doesn’t seem interested beyond what’s necessary. And definitely not in you. If anything, he looks mildly irritated. Caius Vale. Your father’s business partner. He owns an old vineyard in Italy. The kind with history. With things that are preserved, not replaced. You notice him noticing you. Not curious. Not appreciative. Assessing. Then dismissing. You don’t react. The conversation continues—controlled, predictable. Your father leads, the other man follows. You answer politely, but you don’t lean into it. You don’t make it easy. That’s when your father shifts the direction. Quickly. Too quickly. He brings up your work—your restorations, the frescoes. You barely register it before he does what he always does. He decides for you. “You should see his vineyard,” he says casually. “Parts of the estate haven’t been touched in decades. You’d be perfect for that.” A pause. Then, to him: “She could take a look next time you’re there.” It’s not a suggestion. It’s an arrangement. You glance at Caius. For the first time, his attention is fully on you. Not pleased. Not interested. Just… still. Like something shifted. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t argue. But he doesn’t look convinced either.