I can do this. I can sit through a dinner. I can smile. I can be polite and pleasant and whatever version of myself this man is expecting to meet.
Then I'll go home and figure out how to survive the next twenty-four hours.
He walks in at seven on the dot.
I know it's him before the hostess even gestures toward our table. He moves through the room the way men like him always do. Aware of everything, hurrying for nothing. He's tall. Dark hair, a little wilder than I expected, pushed back from a face that's all sharp angles and serious eyes. He's wearing a dark suit with no tie, his collar open. There's something about the way he carries himself that makes the other diners glance up and then quickly look away.
He's younger than I expected. My father said twenty-six, but I'd pictured someone harder. Older in the way these men tend to age, with violence and authority stamped into every line. Rafferty Orlov looks like he could be sitting across from me at a coffee shop. Like he could be someone I'd meet in a normal life.
Except for his eyes. His eyes are watchful and sharp as they land on me from across the room with a focus that makes my breath catch.
He reaches the table and I stand because it feels like the right thing to do, and immediately regret it when the room tilts sideways. I grip the edge of the table and smile. Force the muscles in my face to cooperate.
"Nadia." His voice is low. Steady. He holds out his hand and I take it, praying he can't feel the tremor. His grip is warm and firm. He lets go before it becomes anything and pulls out his own chair. "Rafferty."
"It's nice to meet you." The words come out thin. I sit down too quickly and the chair scrapes against the floor. Smooth, Nadia.
He studies me as he settles across the table. I can feel the assessment. He's reading me the way I imagine he reads everything, quickly, precisely, filing away details most people wouldn't notice. I wonder what he sees. The concealer that's too thick. The way my collarbones cut shadows under the restaurant lighting. The edge of the table I'm gripping like a lifeline.
"Have you ordered?" he asks.
"Just water."
He nods and picks up the menu without pushing me toward one. A waiter appears instantly, the way they do for men like him, and Rafferty orders a whiskey and something from the menu I don't catch because the buzzing in my ears has gotten louder.
"You're not eating?" He says it casually. No judgment in it.
"I'm not very hungry. Busy day." I take a sip of water and will my hand not to shake. It shakes anyway. I set the glass down too hard and water sloshes onto the tablecloth. "Sorry."
"Don't be." He leans back in his chair and looks at me with an expression that’s too close to curiosity for my comfort. "How much has your father told you about all this?"
"Enough. The Council made the match. Two weeks." I try to smile. "Fast timeline."
"Very fast." He watches me for a moment. "You don't seem thrilled."
"Are you?"
Something shifts in his expression. The corner of his mouth twitches. "I was in Dublin two days ago handling something I'd rather have kept handling. So no. Thrilled isn't the word I'd use."
"What word would you use?"
"Resigned." He picks up his whiskey when it arrives and takes a slow sip. "You?"
Terrified. Drowning. Trapped. "Adjusting," I say.
He nods like he hears every word I didn't say hiding behind the one I did.
The food arrives. His, not mine, because I didn't order. A steak, medium rare, with something green beside it. He cuts into it without ceremony and eats efficiently, without performance.
"I'm going to be honest with you," he says between bites. "I don't know how to do this. The dinner. The small talk. My brothers are better at it. Liam would have brought flowers. Aidan would have had a speech prepared. I don't have either."
"I don't need flowers." I offer with a shrug and a half smile.
"What do you need?"
The question feels like a thumb pressed into a bruise. Unwanted pressure on something that's already sore. I look down at my water glass and watch the surface tremble from the vibration of my hands against the table.
What do I need? I need Kyle to stop blackmailing me. I need three years of my life back. I need to not feel sick every time my phone buzzes. I need to sleep for more than two hours without waking up in a cold sweat. I need someone to help me and I have no one to ask, because asking means explaining, and explaining means facing a shame I don’t think I can handle.
