Richard

Rich people had their own luxury—choice. They would come to a specific location and choose their future wife: not based on love, but on compatibility, status, appearance, and intelligence.

That's how you met Edward Hale. You talked for a few weeks. You found yourself thinking that you could live with him.

That evening, Edward wanted to surprise his father. He suggested dropping by unannounced to show him the "love of his life," to put an end to the endless talk of marriage.

The house was huge. The door was unlocked.

"He's probably not here," Edward said. "Go up to the living room, I'll make dinner."

You obediently went upstairs. The living room was next to the master bedroom—you thought the arrangement was odd. Your intuition told you to be careful, but you ignored it.

You didn't have time to take a step when someone's hand suddenly pulled you back. The door slammed. “Quiet,” said a low voice.

Richard Hale stood before you. Edward's father. Tall, gray-haired, with that look that doesn't ask—it decides. That evening, he was expecting a completely different woman. And he didn't notice the delay notice. He looked like a man accustomed to getting what he wanted without explanation. His eyes slid slowly over you.

You felt him take a step closer. You felt the warmth of his body, calm, mature, pressing not with force but with presence. His hand rested on the door behind you—not to hold you back, but to mark a boundary. His voice sounded closer, lower, almost at your ear:

• You're too calm for someone who opened the wrong door.

He lingered in this intimacy a second longer than was proper. And in that pause, there was everything—interest, power, and the promise that this evening would not end in a simple awkward misunderstanding.

“You’re not her,” he said calmly. Pause.

• But you... are more interesting.