Appropriate version. The curated one. The quiet one. The one who takes up as little space as possible.
My stomach drops when the doorbell chimes.
"I'll get it," I say quickly, but Mother's already moving toward the entrance hall with that purposeful stride that brooks no argument.
I follow, smoothing my dress with clammy palms. Through the frosted glass panels, I can see Draco's silhouette. He's alone—he must have left Lucky in the cottage. Smart. Mother would have used a dog as evidence of his unsuitability within thirty seconds.
She opens the door, and I watch her face perform a perfect mask of polite interest as she takes him in.
To his credit, Draco looks good. The dark suit is simple but well-fitted. The white shirt is crisp against his bronze skin. His hair is pulled back neatly, and he's clean-shaven. He looks like he belongs, even if the clothes came from a thrift store instead of a tailor.
"Mrs. Pembroke." He extends his hand, his accent smooth and cultured—not quite American, but not obviously foreign either. "Thank you for inviting me to your home."
Mother takes his hand for exactly two seconds. "Mr. Draco."
"Just Draco, please." His smile is warm but not overeager. "It's actually my first name. I never use my surname."
A flicker of disapproval crosses Mother's face—too casual, too unconventional—but she covers it with practiced ease. "How… modern. Please, come in."
She steps aside, and Draco catches my eye as he enters. Something passes between us—solidarity, maybe, or just acknowledgment that we're about to walk into battle together.
"You look stunning," he says quietly, and the genuine admiration in his voice makes heat climb my neck.
"You clean up pretty well yourself," I manage.
Father appears in the entrance hall, and I watch Draco's posture subtly shift—not submissive, exactly, but respectful. Strategic.
"Robert Pembroke." Father extends his hand for a firm shake. "Charity's father."
"A pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Draco." He releases Father's hand at precisely the right moment—not too quick, not lingering. "Thank you for having me."
"Well." Father's gaze sweeps over him, assessing. "Charity speaks highly of you. We thought it was time to meet the young man who's been occupying so much of her attention."
The phrasing makes me sound like a possession instead of a person, but Draco doesn't flinch.
"I'm honored to be here," he says simply.
Mother gestures toward the dining room. "Shall we? Cook has prepared something special."
Draco reaches the table with the same quiet confidence he used navigating subway platforms. Before I can react, he steps behind my chair—smooth, unhurried—and the seat glides back from the table as if guided by invisible hands.
Only I catch the subtle press of his foot against the chair leg, the magician’s finesse disguised as simple courtesy. Then he takes my hands lightly and eases me into the seat with a gentleness that steals my breath.
Mother’s eyes widen a fraction. Father’s brows lift—just barely, but enough.
Draco isn’t finished.
Before taking his own seat, he steps around the table with graceful precision and pulls out Mother’s chair as well. Not showy. Not servile. Just impeccably respectful.
Mother startles—and then flushes, murmuring a soft, startled, “Oh—thank you.”
Father stares at Draco like a man realizing he has misjudged the battlefield.
Only when both my mother and I are seated does Draco take his own chair, settling with quiet self-possession, hands folded loosely on the table as if he’s done this a thousand times.
The silence that follows is taut, electric.
The formal dining room is exactly what I feared. The table has been set with the full china service—Mother's prized Wedgwood that only comes out for state dinners or when she's trying to impress important guests. Crystal wine glasses gleam under the chandelier. And the place settings…
