Chapter 3 The dinner date✨🦄

Leila stood before the mirror, her lips pressed together as Jasmine secured the final silver clasp on the back of her sleek black dress. It wasn't her mother's choice, nor what the Stevens family likely anticipated.

That was intentional.

"This is a power move," Jasmine said, stepping back with a satisfied grin. "You walk into that dining room, and you're not some fragile heiress. You're the storm."

Leila smirked at her reflection. The silk hugged her curves like a secret, the neckline bold yet tasteful. Her curls framed her face like soft armor, and the diamond studs Jasmine lent her glinted beneath the chandelier light. She looked... unapologetic.

Yet beneath the glamour, her stomach twisted. Bold on the outside, but inside, she felt like a tightrope walker with no net. The tightness in her chest wasn't just nerves; it was rebellion-the kind that simmers, that makes your hands steady but your soul ache.

This wasn't just a dinner. It was strategy. A test.

Her parents had called that morning-not asked, but summoned her.

"The Stevens are back in town. Dinner. Seven sharp," her mother had chirped.

Her father had added, "This is important, Leila," in that voice that always made her shrink. The voice that reminded her she was their daughter-but never really her own woman.

"I don't want to meet him," she whispered to Jasmine as soon as the call ended. "They're not going to let me say no."

"Then show up," Jasmine had replied. "But do it your way."

And they planned-down to the earrings. A dress elegant but not submissive. A calm, cold presence that would shift the entire room without saying much. And if anyone asked about her attitude? She was fasting. Reflecting. She owed no explanations.

Jasmine kissed her on both cheeks. "Now go shake the table. Call me the second you escape."

Outside the penthouse, a sleek black sedan waited. A chauffeur in a navy suit opened the door like she was royalty.

"Miss Leila," he said, tipping his cap. "I'm Henry, your driver tonight."

"Good evening, Henry." She slid into the back seat, the leather cool against her skin.

As the city passed in blurs, Henry glanced in the mirror. "Big night?"

She exhaled slowly. "Let's just say I'm walking into a room full of expectations... and I plan to rearrange them."

He chuckled. "Sounds like they won't know what hit them."

Her lips curled slightly. "That's the idea."

But her confidence cracked for half a second when the Stevens' estate came into view.

The Stevens estate looked less like a home and more like a modern palace dressed in restraint. Marble. Glass. Legacy wrapped in minimalism. Wealth that didn't need to flaunt itself-it whispered instead.

As she stepped out, two staffers opened the front doors.

"Miss Leila Smith," a butler announced.

She walked into the foyer with poise. Her heels clicked on polished stone, echoing like punctuation. Heads turned. The air shifted.

Her mother stood first. "There you are!" Her eyes flicked to the dress-one beat too long-before she recomposed. "Everyone's waiting. Come."

Leila followed, head high. The dining room stretched like a gallery: crystal glassware, silver cutlery, a chandelier that could power half of Brooklyn. At the far end stood Mr. and Mrs. Stevens... and James.

He was exactly as she remembered-pristine, polite, measured. The kind of man who delivered eulogies and wedding toasts with equal composure. His smile was restrained. Beautiful, yes. But practiced.

"Leila," he said, stepping forward. "You look... stunning."

"Thank you," she replied, taking his hand for a brief, neutral shake. His fingers were cool, firm. Their eyes locked for a split second. She offered no more.

She wasn't here to be charmed.

*Dinner began*

Six courses. Twelve crystal glasses. Enough staff to coordinate an orchestra.

Conversation floated across the table-business, politics, Lake Como. It was rehearsed, polite, and utterly hollow.

Leila nodded where necessary, smiled on cue. But behind the polished expressions, she was thinking about Operation Freedom. About the scandal Jasmine had mapped out like a chessboard. About the photos that could drop the moment the engagement went public.

And strangely... she wasn't sure she needed them.

Mrs. Stevens, radiant in a pearl-trimmed silk blouse, smiled warmly. "Your parents speak highly of you, Leila. Poised, intellectual, passionate about international relations."

Leila returned the smile. "That's generous of them."

James chimed in. "And your work with Rise Up-it's been impressive. You've built something meaningful."

She tilted her head, voice calm. "I've found impact comes from bold decisions."

His brow twitched ever so slightly. "True. Though I tend to value steady hands."

That was a statement. A quiet call to order.

Leila said nothing. She simply sipped her water and let silence speak.

James glanced at her again. Not just curiosity this time-calculation. He was trying to read her. But she'd spent years perfecting the kind of quiet that left powerful men confused.

The conversation shifted.

"Have you ever been to Lake Como?" Mrs. Stevens asked.

"No, I haven't," Leila said.

"You must join us sometime," she said with practiced grace. "It's exquisite."

"Perhaps," Leila said with a smile that revealed nothing.

Mr. Stevens turned, his posture sharp. "Your father mentioned your interest in diplomacy. Thoughts on global affairs?"

Leila didn't flinch. "It's complicated. But I believe dialogue matters. Listening is underrated."

"A diplomatic answer," he noted.

"Sometimes diplomacy is the most radical act," she replied, coolly.

James smiled faintly. "Touché."

Halfway through the main course, Leila drifted.

Her mother laughed too loudly at James's joke. Her father nodded through Mr. Stevens's story about mergers and "good family values."

Leila watched them, but felt far away.

In her mind, Jasmine's voice echoed: "This dinner's a costume party. Everyone's playing a part. Just don't forget who you are underneath."

She pressed her fingers gently to her lap, grounding herself.

I don't want a brochure life, she thought. I want something real. Something that might fall apart before it becomes something true.

The fork in her hand was a prop. The laughter around her, a script. She was the only one rewriting her lines.

Dessert arrived. A cloud of spun sugar over gold-flecked chocolate.

James turned toward her. "We're hosting a charity ball next weekend. I'd love for you to attend as my guest."

Her parents beamed.

Leila set down her fork. "That depends. Is there a real dance floor, or just enough space for stiff photos and fake smiles?"

James blinked-caught off guard.

Then he laughed. "There will be dancing. I'll make sure of it."

"Then maybe," she said.

Her mother gave her a subtle warning glance. Leila didn't care. She'd already won.

As the evening ended, James walked her to the car.

Outside, the night was cool. Breezy. A gentle wind tugged at the hem of her dress.

At the steps, he paused. "You're... not what I expected."

She turned to him. "You expected someone easier."

"I expected someone more... agreeable."

"And now?"

His smile barely touched his eyes. "You're confident. Controlled. Beautiful, but distant."

Leila tilted her head. "Maybe I'm not the girl you thought I was."

"Maybe," he said, "that's a good thing."

She studied him for a beat. His gaze wasn't cold. Just... calculated. Like a man who kept everything close to the chest, even his honesty.

She didn't reply. She opened the car door. "Goodnight, James."

And she left him standing there-expectations dangling like threads.

In the backseat, as the car pulled away, Leila folded her hands. She watched the city blur by, her mind humming.

They thought they saw me. But they didn't.

She smiled. Quietly. The kind that meant I'm just getting started.

And she wasn't sure anymore if she wanted to burn the whole thing down... or stay long enough to light a different fire.

Back at the penthouse, Jasmine was curled up with a blanket and red wine.

As soon as Leila walked in, she sat up. "Spill. Everything."

Leila tossed off her heels and flopped onto the couch. "It was like eating caviar in a board meeting."

Jasmine made a face. "Ugh. Beige in human form?"

"James? Beige, polite, a little too polished."

"What did you say?"

"Just enough. Challenged him on a few things. Made him blink."

Jasmine grinned. "My queen. Did he flinch?"

"He invited me to some charity ball."

"Oooh, fancy."

"I said maybe... if there's room to dance."

Jasmine gasped. "Icon."

Leila laughed, full and real.

Then Jasmine leaned in, serious now. "But you know this is just the beginning, right?"

Leila nodded.

"We're still moving on with the plan. This dinner?" Jasmine's eyes gleamed. "It was dress rehearsal. When the media gets their story... that's opening night."

Leila leaned her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe.

Or maybe the story was already writing itself