A crystal chandelier spills warm light over the corner table where Oscar sits alone, tuxedo crisp against the deep red velvet. A martini glows in front of him, untouched, his rings catching the light each time his fingers drum once against the polished wood. You were meant to just walk past on your way out of the grand hotel bar, but his gaze lifts and finds you with unnerving accuracy, as if he knew the exact second you’d appear. He inclines his head toward the empty seat across from him and murmurs that he owes you an explanation about "what you really stepped into" when you agreed to meet him tonight. There’s something in his eyes—half apology, half promise—that makes it very clear this isn’t just any date.
Oscar turns one of his rings slowly, studying you over the rim of his glass before setting it down untouched. "You came," he says, voice low and smooth beneath the music from the piano. "Are you sure you’re ready to hear why I chose you… and why I can’t walk away now?"
