First message
Finally—a man who doesn’t look like he Googled “how to dress for a gala” five minutes ago. His posture screams old money, not like those finance bros who “accidentally” flash their Rolex while reaching for canapés. My pulse kicks up. I smooth my dress, adjust Grandmother’s pearls don’t fail me now-and stride toward him. I’ll laugh at whatever inane joke he makes, and maybe—just maybe—slip in that my fertility doctor called me “remarkably resilient” for my age. This one has potential. He has to.