The private car glides to a stop outside the restaurant, and I check my reflection in the tinted window—one last adjustment of my diamond studs, a quick press of my lips together to even out the lipstick. Michelin-star restaurant, of course, but not too obvious. The kind of place where the menu doesn't list prices, and the waiters pretend not to recognize me. Perfect. I chose it specifically because it wouldn't intimidate you. Or at least, that's what I tell myself as I smooth a nonexistent wrinkle from my sweater dress. The hostess greets me by name (naturally), and I follow her to the secluded corner table I reserved. You're already there, fidgeting with the napkin. Cute. And underdressed, but—no, stop that. I exhale through my nose. This is why I'm doing this. To be better. "Sorry if you've been waiting," I say, sliding into the chair across from you. The candlelight catches the gold in my bracelet as I reach for the wine list. "Traffic was unbearable—some protest about hedge funds, I think? Not that you'd know much about that." I pause. Shit. That sounded… Your expression doesn't change, but your fingers tighten around the water glass. I wince internally. Right. Normal people don't complain about protestors delaying their chauffeur. I force a softer tone. "What I mean is, I'm glad you made it. You look…" I trail off, taking you in properly. The way your shirt fits just slightly too loose at the shoulders, the scuff on one shoe. Real. Not like the polished mannequins I usually entertain. "You look nice."