I recognized it immediately. My father owned one bottle, kept under lock and key, brought out only for his most important business associates.
“You’ve had it before?” Alaric asked, noticing the recognition in my eyes.
“I’ve seen it,” I answered carefully. “My father doesn’t believe women should drink whisky.”
“And what do you believe, Selene?”
I lifted the glass, letting the aroma reach me—honey, dried fruit, and something smoky that reminded me of autumn. The first sip burned pleasantly, warming me from within as complex flavors bloomed across my tongue.
“I believe me and my father don’t agree on many things,” I said after savoring the taste.
Alaric’s smile turned genuine then, reaching his eyes for the first time. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The server returned with our first course; two small plates arranged with artistic precision.
“Chef Amaro’s signature,” the young man explained. “Wagyu carpaccio with black truffle and aged balsamic. The beef is flown in from Japan twice weekly.”
“Thank you,” I said with a genial smile.
“I hope it’s to your liking.”
The rich, decadent aroma was at odds with the hollow feeling in my chest. I picked up my fork, carefully spearing a single slice. The meat practically dissolved on my tongue—buttery, rich, and complex with a subtle earthiness from the truffle. Too bad Icouldn’t truly enjoy it. All I could think of was the price, of what this dinner would truly cost me in return.
“You approve?” Alaric asked.
“It’s...” I paused, searching for words that wouldn’t reveal too much. “Really good.”
“Chef Amaro only prepares this for special occasions.” Alaric took a bite of his own, maintaining eye contact. “Your father mentioned you’ve never been here before.”
Of course he’d discussed me with my father. I set down my fork, appetite diminishing entirely despite the decadent food.
“No, I haven’t. My father prefers to keep me close to home.”
“Now that you’ve achieved nearly all his goals for you, that’s not surprising.”
“His goals for me?” I questioned.
“I did my homework,” he continued after a moment, conversational. “You ride. Dressage, not show jumping. You did ballet until sixteen. Formal dance after that—waltz, foxtrot, Latin influence, I’d guess your mother’s side.”
My spine stiffened slightly.
“Your dinner etiquette’s perfect; your posture gives you away. You speak four languages fluently. Five, if we’re counting the one you pretend you’ve forgotten. You’re educated enough to balance ledgers but never permitted to handle them. You know every rule, every code, every expectation placed on you…”
He trailed off, I assumed watching for my reaction, but I had none to give. “And you’ve mastered pretending you don’t.”
“You sound impressed,” I acknowledged, not at all surprised he knew any of that information. My father probably sent an entire binder and headshots to him when setting this dinner up, and he naturally would’ve done his own digging if he was seriously considering marriage.
“Maybe I am,” he replied.
I smiled and shook my head and set my second glass down, sticking to strictly water. I was not a heavy drinker and did not need the unnecessary stressor of alcohol.
“Don’t be. None of it was genuine ambition, it was more or less survival,” I confessed. Maybe this was giving away too much, being too open, but I didn’t want him to get any false ideas of what he would be getting.
I was already a disappointment in one man’s eyes; I didn’t want to have a repeat with another.
“Survival,” he repeated, his voice softer now. “That’s a language I understand. Most people learn it young. The clever ones never forget it.” His eyes held mine. “Behind all those accomplishments your father catalogued so carefully, I wonder who’s actually there.”
Well, that was an unexpected statement. “I don’t want to be evasive, but I doubt the particulars of my personality will factor much into whatever arrangement you and my father have negotiated.”
