Catherine stood before the mirror for a moment longer than necessary, smoothing her fingers lightly over the structured lines of the vintage Chanel suit as if confirming its place on her rather than adjusting it. The fabric carried a quiet authority, the kind that did not demand attention and yet never went unnoticed, and the familiarity of it settled something inside her.

This had once belonged to her mother—one among many, each passed down with an unspoken understanding that it was more than clothing. It was legacy. It was belonging.

The pearl lanyard rested neatly against her collarbone, completing the look with an ease that felt almost instinctive.

When she turned to Maximilian, there was no hesitation in her posture, but there was still that small pause before she spoke, a flicker of something softer beneath her usual confidence.

"How do I look?"

Maximilian didn’t even take a second glance. His answer came as naturally as breathing, his gaze steady, unwavering in its certainty.

"Stunning. Why do you even ask?"

Catherine exhaled, a quiet sound that carried both amusement and something more thoughtful. She tilted her head slightly, studying him as if weighing his answer against her own intention.

"I asked if it was appropriate," she corrected, though the faint curve of her lips betrayed her.

He only nodded, entirely unconcerned, as though the distinction did not matter in the slightest.

"Since when do you second-guess your clothes, Catherine?" he asked, his tone light but edged with something deeper—confidence, not just in her appearance, but in her judgment. "You’ve always dressed impeccably."

That wasn’t flattery. She knew that.

It was trust.

And for some reason, that mattered more.

A soft laugh escaped her, quieter now, the earlier tension easing as she stepped closer to him. There was comfort in being seen that way—not just admired, but believed in.

Outside, the low hum of the Rolls-Royce engine broke the stillness, drawing her attention as the car came into view. Catherine paused, her brows lifting ever so slightly at the sight of it.

"You asked Sebastian?" she asked, glancing at him.

Maximilian gave a small nod, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Of course it was. Her car had been at Sebastian’s estate. Getting it was nothing more than a matter of asking.

Still, something about it made her more aware of the moment, of where they were going, of who they were about to meet.

She slipped into the car beside him, the soft leather cool against her skin, and turned toward him again, curiosity no longer something she bothered to hide.

"Who are we meeting?"

Maximilian’s lips curved, that same elusive smile returning as he leaned back slightly, entirely at ease.

"Someone who rules the world," he said, punctuating it with a brief wink.

Catherine rolled her eyes, though the gesture lacked any real dismissal. If anything, it was almost fond.

"There’s no one like that," she replied, leaning away just slightly—only to be pulled back again as his hand found hers, his grip firm but unrestrained, as if it simply belonged there.

"Someone from my class," he clarified.

That... made more sense.

Catherine’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, thoughtful now, her mind quietly piecing things together. The Whitmore name alone placed him in circles she had only brushed against, circles built on legacy rather than ambition, where relationships were not just formed but maintained with precision.

Sebastian had been easy to understand. There had been history there, familiarity, something genuine.

But this... this felt different.

There would be purpose behind it.

There always was.

Her eyes drifted over him again, taking in the clean lines of his woolen suit, the effortless way he carried himself within it, as if nothing about this required effort at all.

"You’re rich enough to buy a decent car, a jet... even a yacht," she said after a moment, her tone curious rather than critical. "Why didn’t you?"

The question lingered between them, simple on the surface, but carrying an edge of quiet observation beneath it.

"To lay low?" she added, studying him more closely now.

Maximilian’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a subtle shift—something more honest, more unguarded.

"I don’t know how to spend money," he said.

It wasn’t self-deprecating. It wasn’t a joke.

It was simply the truth.

He had grown up surrounded by wealth that had never needed to be flaunted, never needed to prove itself. And what he had earned on his own... he had never felt the urge to display.

For a moment, Catherine just looked at him. Ah... the difference between old money and new money. She had gotten accustomed to the life of new money and the perks that came with it.

Then she leaned back slightly, her fingers still loosely intertwined with his, her thumb brushing absentmindedly against his skin as she considered his words.

"Now that you have it, you can spend it however you want," he added, his tone lighter now, almost teasing.

She huffed softly, shaking her head.

"I don’t spend my money either," she admitted, her voice quieter, more reflective. "Most of what I have... they’re gifts. From my family."

There was no embarrassment in it, no need to justify. Just a simple truth.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

The car slowed to a smooth, effortless stop, and Catherine’s gaze lifted to the towering façade before them.

The Mark Hotel.

Even from the outside, it carried that quiet, unmistakable weight—the kind of place that did not need to announce its prestige because everyone who mattered already knew. It was a place where privacy was currency and discretion was guaranteed. Celebrities disappeared into it. Billionaires conducted conversations that never left its walls.

And now... she was walking into it.

Her curiosity sharpened, not in a restless way, but in something more focused, more aware. Maximilian had said someone who rules the world—and for the first time, she wondered if he hadn’t been entirely joking.

They were received with seamless politeness, the kind that felt practiced yet never artificial, and guided toward a private elevator. No waiting, no interruptions. Just a quiet ascent, the city falling away beneath them as they rose higher and higher, until even the sounds of Meridon seemed distant.

By the time the doors opened, Catherine felt that subtle shift in atmosphere that came with power held behind closed doors.

A single, discreet knock.

The door opened almost immediately.

An assistant stood there, composed, efficient, his presence unobtrusive and yet precise in every movement.

"Mr. Whitmore," he greeted with a slight bow, extending his hand.

Maximilian returned it with ease.

"Miss Preston," the assistant added, offering the same courtesy.

Catherine acknowledged him with a polite smile, but her attention had already begun to shift—drawn by movement deeper inside the suite.

Someone was approaching.

The sound of measured steps carried across the polished floor, unhurried yet purposeful, and then he appeared.

Tall. Impeccably dressed in a tailored Italian suit that fit him as though it had been crafted for no one else. Every detail—from the sharp knot of his tie to the understated gleam of his cufflinks—spoke of refinement that bordered on effortless perfection.

"Max!"

His tone was casual, almost warm, but it contrasted sharply with the precision of everything else about him.

Catherine didn’t miss that.

Maximilian stepped forward, his expression relaxing into something familiar, almost amused.

"You’ve started to dress like your brother now, Timothy," he said, reaching out, but the handshake never came.

Timothy closed the distance instead, pulling him into a brief, easy embrace, as though formalities were unnecessary between them.

"Ah, Miss Preston..." he turned, his attention shifting to her with a smoothness that felt practiced but not insincere. His gaze lingered just long enough to register appreciation without crossing into impropriety. "You’re stunning."

He took her hand, his grip firm, confident.

Catherine smiled, composed as ever, but there was a flicker of something beneath it now—curiosity, sharpened into recognition.

Her eyes slid briefly toward Maximilian.

A silent question.

He answered it without delay.

"This is Timothy Rathbourne," he said simply. "My classmate."

For a fraction of a second, Catherine forgot to breathe.

Rathbourne.

The name alone carried weight—old, global, untouchable in the way only certain families were. Not just wealth, but influence that threaded through industries, governments, decisions that shaped markets before the world even realized they were shifting.

So this was what he meant.

Someone who rules the world.

Her heartbeat steadied almost immediately after, her composure slipping back into place as naturally as it always did, but the awareness remained. This was not just an introduction.

This was an entrance into something far larger.

"Just a classmate?" Timothy chuckled, glancing at Maximilian with mock offense. "I’m hurt, Max."

Maximilian only laughed softly, not bothering to correct him.

And Catherine noticed that too.

The ease. The lack of explanation. The quiet balance between them.

If anything, it didn’t feel like Timothy held the upper hand here.

If anything... it felt equal.

Or perhaps...

She glanced at Maximilian again, just briefly.

Something more.

They moved further into the suite, the space opening into a carefully curated blend of luxury and restraint. Nothing excessive, nothing loud. Just quiet, deliberate elegance.

Catherine took her seat beside Maximilian, her posture relaxed but her senses alert, every detail settling into place as she adjusted to the room, to the man before her, to the shift in the air that came with it.

Because whatever this meeting was... It wasn’t casual.