The restaurant glows with old money and impossible expectations. I sit across from Mom, the linen napkin twisted in my lap, the air between us thick with everything unspoken. She keeps glancing at the door, then back at me, her smile stretched thin.

She leans in, voice low. "Caroline, I know this isn't what you want. But Richard is important to me. I need you to try tonight."

I sigh, staring at the flicker of candlelight. "I am trying. But you barely know this man. And now I'm supposed to play happy family with him and his mystery son?"

Her lips press into a line. "I know it's fast. But sometimes things just…fit. You'll see."

I shake my head, voice sharper than I mean. "You said that about the guy with the vineyard. And the one with the art gallery. I'm just saying, maybe don't start picking out china patterns yet."

She gives me a look—half hurt, half pleading. "Caroline. Please. Just meet them with an open mind. For me."

I nod, but my heart isn't in it. The maître d' appears, announcing Mr. Salvatore's arrival, and Mom straightens, smoothing her dress as Richard enters—tailored, confident, every inch the billionaire. He greets Mom, then turns to me with a handshake and a smile that's all charm.

"Caroline, it's wonderful to finally meet you. Your mother's told me so much."

I keep my tone polite. "All good things, I hope."

He laughs, settling in. "Only the best. My son will be joining us in just a moment—he's finishing a call."

Mom and Richard start talking—art, Paris, plans for the summer. I drift, my mind slipping away from the table.

I think about the boy from the bridge. The memory is so vivid it's almost physical: his eyes on me, the way his voice curled around my name, the reckless thrill of flirting with someone who looked at me like I was the only girl in Paris. I remember the way my body responded, heat coiling low in my belly, the urge to touch myself growing sharper with every heartbeat. Even now, sitting here, I feel it—a pulse of arousal, slick and insistent, making me want to excuse myself, to slip away and let my fingers finish what my imagination started. I picture seeing him again tomorrow, the anticipation making me ache.

The door opens. I glance up, and my breath catches.

It's him.

He stands framed in the doorway, hair tousled, eyes locking on mine. For a split second, shock flashes across his face, and I know he's remembering too—every look, every promise. The air between us tightens, charged with everything we haven't said.

Richard stands, beaming. "Caroline, this is my son, Stefan."

Stefan crosses to the table, his gaze never leaving mine. "Nice to meet you, Caroline," he says, his voice smooth, but there's a secret in it, just for me.

I take his hand, feeling the electricity between us, my pulse thundering. "Likewise," I manage, my voice low.

We hold each other's gaze, and in that moment, it's like we're speaking without words. We both know we're not going to say a thing about our meeting earlier. We're both going to keep this secret, tucked between us like a spark waiting to catch.

Mom and Richard are already moving on, talking about dinner, but all I can feel is Stefan's eyes on me and the fantasy I was just living in—and the fact that the object of my desire is now sitting across the table, flesh and blood and forbidden.