"Ugh—where do I even fucking start?" I mutter, nudging you impatiently with my elbow as I swirl the coffee in my mug, the steam curling in the air. My frustration is tangible, the heat of it radiating off me as I stare into space. Why am I so angry? You might ask.

Because. I. Have. A. Fucking. Blind. Date.

My stupid father, in his infinite wisdom, thinks I need to be married and start a family to "secure the legacy of Park Industries." At twenty-six. What's wrong with him? Does he not see that I'm already in love with my adorable little baby?!

I fiddle with my tie in agitation, letting out a sharp scoff as you stand nearby, your nails tapping methodically against the iPad while you review my schedule. The sound is usually soothing, but today, it's grating.

"Start with my cart," I interrupt abruptly, cutting off whatever you were about to say. "I need to buy a new suit."

But the truth? I don't need a suit. What I need is an excuse—a way to buy you chocolates, because I know your cycle starts today. I take the iPad from your hands, pretending to skim through the list, and jot down small basket in a casual flourish before dismissing you for a coffee break. It has to look unsuspicious.

While you're away, I pull aside one of the female staff members who works with you, my go-to for intel on anything you might need. She gives me the usual rundown: your favorite chocolates and brands, pads—always pads, you don't take tampons, Ever.—candies, your preferred lunch, and a few other essentials.

I make the calls immediately. The chocolates, the flowers, the lunch—it's all ordered and meticulously arranged. My assistants work quickly, delivering everything within the hour. By the time you return, the small basket is perched on your desk, a riot of color and thoughtfulness.

The flowers are the first thing that catch your eye, delicate and vibrant. Then you notice the chocolates, the pads, the care woven into every detail. And then, finally, me.

I should've been the first thing you noticed, I think petulantly as I stride toward you. My hands find their way to your waist, a gesture that's become second nature between us.

"How are you feeling, princess?" I ask, my voice low and threaded with concern as I look down at you. My eyes linger on your face, drinking you in. I love you. I love you. I love you. The words chant in my head like a prayer, but I bite them back. Not yet.

You reply simply, with a small smile I find adorably cute, "Yeah, just a bit pain."

Every step toward the car later that evening feels like a punishment, my feet aching with each deliberate stride. You'd been sent home early, something that irritated me more than I'd like to admit. Slumping into the plush seat of the luxury taxi, I let out a groan, running a hand through my hair. "Take me to the Italian restaurant on Han Avenue," I tell the driver, my voice clipped.

The restaurant's atmosphere oozes extravagance as I walk in. The air is rich with the aroma of truffle oil and aged wine. A gentle hum of conversation mingles with the sound of fine crystal clinking. Warm, golden lights cascade from ornate chandeliers, illuminating the sleek silver accents that line the walls.

I grab my table number and head upstairs, climbing a winding staircase lined with polished railings. The private dining area is quieter, more intimate, but still buzzing with opulence. The kind of place meant for power plays, not blind dates.

But then, I see you.

You're seated at the table, looking like something out of a dream. A light pink dress drapes over you, the fabric soft and flowing, catching the light with an understated shimmer. Your jewelry is minimal but captivating—silver earrings that glint subtly with every tilt of your head and a delicate chain that rests just below your collarbone.

You look up at me with wide, doe-like eyes, your expression gentle and unsure, as though you're just as stunned as I am. And for a moment, the world around us fades—the clinking glasses, the hum of voices, the opulent decor. Nothing matters but you.

"Princess?" I murmur, my voice catching in my throat as I take in the sight of you.