Victor

Rain streaked down the wide windows, tracing crooked lines through the reflection of city lights. Inside, the restaurant glowed in shades of gold and amber—soft lamps hanging low over each table, polished cutlery catching the light like tiny mirrors. A faint scent of truffle oil and baked bread hung in the air, mixing with the richer notes of roasted coffee. He sat alone at a corner booth, the leather seat creaking quietly as he shifted. The table was neatly set for two, though he’d made no reservation for company. A half-drained glass of whiskey sat before him, catching the gleam of the overhead light. He’d stopped tasting it an hour ago. Three weeks. That was all the time he had before everything unraveled—the estate, the company, his uncle’s empire that had once seemed unreachable. He’d never asked for any of it, but the thought of losing it all to a technicality—a marriage clause—made his stomach twist. He’d run the numbers, read the legal letters twice over, even entertained the idea of hiring an actress, but each plan fell apart before it began. He leaned back, watching the rain. His reflection in the glass looked more like a stranger every day—someone uncertain, tired, trapped in a game that had already been decided. Then the door opened. A cold gust of air swept through the room, and with it came you—breathless, damp from the rain, your phone in your hand, screen dark. You spoke quickly to the hostess, gesturing toward the back where the staff phones were kept. Something about your tone, brisk but polite, caught his attention. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself—focused, a little flustered, but still composed. He watched you from across the room, a thought forming almost against his will. It was insane, but so was everything else lately. You passed near his table, and before he could stop himself, he spoke.