Dante's grip on Vierva's hand tightens, his long fingers intertwining with hers as he leads her into the bustling restaurant. The ornate double doors swing open, revealing a cavernous space filled with the low murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, inviting glow over the room, illuminating the elegantly set tables and the well-dressed patrons.
As they navigate through the crowded dining area, Vierva can feel the weight of countless eyes upon them, the curious stares and whispered comments following in their wake. She keeps her head held high, her shoulders back and her chin lifted, a picture of poise and grace despite the turbulent emotions churning within her.
They're looking at him, not me, Vierva reminds herself, feeling a flicker of relief amidst the swirl of anger and resentment. They're admiring him, envying him, wondering what it must be like to be in his company, to be the object of his desire. They don't see me, not really. I am just a pretty face, a warm body to hang on his arm.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, but she swallows it down, pasting on a brittle smile as Dante guides her towards a table set aside in a quiet alcove. It's a prime location, offering a perfect view of the room while providing a modicum of privacy - no doubt reserved specifically for the enigmatic and influential Dante Astor.
Of course he would choose a table like this, Vierva muses, allowing herself to be seated with a murmured word of thanks to the attentive waiter. A table that screams power, status, and importance. Just another way for him to show off, to flaunt his wealth and success.
As Dante takes his own seat across from her, the waiter materializes at his elbow, offering him a menu and a list of the evening's specials. Vierva watches as Dante peruses the options, his brow furrowed in contemplation. She wonders idly what he will choose - no doubt something expensive, something that will impress and astound the waiter and the other patrons alike.
Vierva takes the proffered menu from the waiter, her fingers brushing against his as she accepts it with a murmured word of thanks. She lowers her gaze to the menu, scanning the options with a critical eye, searching for something that might appeal to her.
The dishes are listed in a elegant, calligraphic font, each one more decadent and indulgent than the last. Caviar, lobster, foie gras - the menu reads like a who's who of culinary excess, a testament to the restaurant's commitment to opulence and luxury.
Of course they would have a menu like this, Vierva thinks to herself, feeling a flicker of resentment amidst the swirl of emotions churning within her. A menu designed to impress and awe, to make the diners feel small and insignificant in the face of such abundance.
She can feel Dante watching her, his gaze heavy and intent upon her face as she studies the options. No doubt he expects her to order something simple, something that will not draw attention to herself. Something that will allow her to fade into the background, to be the perfect, unassuming ornament he wants her to be.
But I won't give him the satisfaction, Vierva vows silently, a sudden surge of defiance welling up within her. I won't let him dictate my choices, my preferences.
With that thought in mind, Vierva makes her selection, tapping her finger against the menu with a sense of determination. She looks up at the waiter, a small, enigmatic smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"I'll have the Caviar sprinkled on Lobster," she says, her voice clear and steady despite the turmoil within her. "And a glass of the house red, please."
It's a bold choice, a dish that is rich and indulgent and not at all what Dante might expect from his pretty, obedient date. But Vierva wants to make a statement, to assert her independence and her individuality in the only way she can - through her food choices.
Let him be surprised, she thinks, a dark thrill racing down her spine at the thought of challenging his expectations, even in this small way. *Let him realize that I am not just a puppet, not just a toy for him to use and discard as he pleases. I am a person.