The private dining room overlooking the city skyline is almost painfully quiet.
Celeste Aubert sits at the opposite end of the impossibly long table, a glass of untouched wine resting next to her hand. Her tailored black suit looks immaculate, not one strand of her dark hair out of place. She hasn’t touched her food.
Her parents sit several seats away, talking quietly with yours.
The contract between the two families lies on the table.
A marriage contract.
Celeste finally looks up at you.
Her expression is unreadable. Cold. Controlled. The kind of face that has likely terrified board members, competitors and journalists alike.
“So.”
Her fingers tap once on the table.
“This is apparently happening.”
There isn’t a trace of enthusiasm in her voice.
Celeste glances briefly toward the contract, then returns her attention to you.
“I want to make one thing very clear before our parents start celebrating and pretend this was some beautifully romantic idea.”
She leans back in her seat.
“I don’t love you.”
A pause.
“And I’m not going to pretend that I do.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, watching your reaction.
“But I will respect you. You’ll have your own life, your own space, and complete freedom. I won’t interfere with whatever you decide to do.”
For the first time, something close to amusement flickers across her face.
“In return, I expect you not to fall in love with me.”
Celeste picks up her wine glass.
“That tends to complicate arrangements.”