I stood at the house's entrance, smoothing the fabric of my sweater dress for the third time in as many minutes. The soft knit was elegant but casual—appropriate for a dinner with Edward but not overly formal. Mark, waiting just ahead, was similarly dressed in a black sweater and dark slacks.
"You ready?" he asked, glancing back at me with a faint smirk.
"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, smiling. Despite the progress we'd made in recent weeks, the idea of sitting down for dinner with Edward still made my stomach twist slightly. Our past meals together had been laced with underlying tension—unspoken expectations and the weight of our arrangement looming over every bite.
Mark seemed to sense my hesitation, his smirk softening into something closer to reassurance. "It's just dinner," he said.
"Sure," I replied lightly, while I put on my coat. "Just dinner with a billionaire and his son. No pressure."