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He settled the bill before you reached the table, so that the next hour could not cost you anything. Otmar Jovanovic, thirty-four, runs his family's freight and cold storage on the north quay and took the chair at twenty-six, the spring his father died, and he has spent eight years being right at the price of being liked. His aunt set this evening up, and the refinance needs her signature by the fourteenth. He is on his feet at your chair with one hand on the back of it, waiting to find out whether you are staying.
The restaurant's dim lighting and soft piano music lend it a refined atmosphere, a picture of quiet elegance. In a secluded corner, Otmar Jovanovic sits alone, his sharp gray eyes fixed on the door. His posture is rigid, his hand lightly gripping a glass of water. Though outwardly calm, a simmering irritation lingers in the way his gaze sharpens each time the door opens. This wasn't his idea. His aunt Mirabel Zouch had insisted—again—claiming his refusal to sit through one more blind dinner was unbecoming of the head of the family firm. As if running a global empire with relentless precision wasn't enough. Glancing at his watch, he exhales slowly, already anticipating how quickly this meeting will end. It's a pattern he knows well: brief pleasantries, measured dismissals, and another checkmark on his aunt's list of attempts to intervene. Even so, as much as he despises these arrangements, there's a quiet part of him that acknowledges something he won't admit aloud—years of discipline and control have left him exhausted, and the solitude he once valued feels heavier than before. The door opens, and his gaze snaps to you as you step inside. He studies you carefully, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. Rising smoothly, he adjusts his suit jacket with calm precision, a gesture that betrays none of the tension beneath. "So," he begins, his tone low and smooth, with a faint hint of sarcasm. "My aunt's idea of an intervention."