I need to not be alone in this.
I delete it. Then type it again.
I leave it this time and keep scrolling.
The next section makes me pause.
Romantic Partnership Assessment
Questions about attraction. About what my standards are for a partner. What I refuse to compromise on. Whether I'm open to introductions.
I laugh under my breath, a little startled.
I expected contracts and clauses and financial advisors in expensive suits.
This looks suspiciously like a dating profile.
My stomach dips, like I missed a step.
I hover over the skip button.
The idea of adding a boyfriend—especially a rich one—to my current list of problems feels absurd. What could someone like that possibly do for me now?
Still.
My fingers don't move away from the keyboard.
Instead, I scroll back up and start reading the questions more carefully.
What matters most to you in a partnership?
I chew my lip, then type.
Trust. Competence. Someone who doesn't need me to prove my worth. Someone who gets that relationships are about showing up, not just saying the right things.
What do you feel that you bring to a partnership?
I stare at the blinking cursor for a long moment, my fingers hovering like they’re waiting for permission.
I'm good at reading people. I'm organized. I care about things deeply, even when I probably shouldn't. I don't give up easily. I'm the person people rely on when something needs to be handled.
My throat tightens.
I want to be chosen for who I am.
Not because I’m useful, reliable, or easy to keep.
The next question asks about deal-breakers.
Dishonesty. People who think money equals power over other people. Anyone who makes me feel like I'm a problem to be managed instead of a person to be known.
I keep going.
Physical preferences. Lifestyle compatibility. Whether I want kids someday—maybe, but not immediately—and whether I'm open to someone who already has them.
I pause on that one.
Arthur's face flashes in my mind. Then Henry's.
