Starting With an SSS-Rank Goddess Summon!

SWISH!

The head maître d’ approached the table with quiet practiced elegance.

Resting across his forearms were three colossal leather-bound menu folios embossed with solid platinum lettering that looked more like ancient heavy encyclopedia volumes than food menus.

He gracefully set one massive book in front of each guest, bowing low.

"Welcome to The Celestial Zenith," the maître d’ spoke with deep melodious reverence. "Our executive culinary masters have curated the finest grade-AAA dimensional delicacies for your pleasure today. We have abyssal caviar harvested from the deep rift trenches, gold-leaf-crusted celestial wyvern tenderloins, and thousand-year aged mana-truffles imported directly from the elven enclaves... Please, take your time, and let us know whenever you are prepared to feast."

"Thank you," Harper chirped, flipping her massive menu open with excitement.

Across the table, Seraphina’s crimson eyes suddenly ignited with a brilliant, predatory spark of inspiration.

’This is it!’ Seraphina realized in a flash of pure triumph with her pulse quickening. ’This is my redemption! Silas said people learn about each other on dates... and he specifically tested me on his favorite food earlier and he told me during one of our clothing sessions! If I take complete control of the order and request his favorite meal without him having to utter a single word, it will prove that I truly care about him and pay attention to his needs!’

Filled with soaring confidence, Seraphina flipped open the heavy, leather-bound folio.

Her sharp crimson eyes scanned the gilded pages.

’Page 1: Pan-Seared Astral Leviathan Cheek with Saffron Foam - 120,000 SC.’

’Page 2: Braised Abyssal Drake Ribs in Mana-Infused Truffle Glaze - 250,000 SC.’

’Page 3: Golden Phoenix-Egg Soufflé with Lunar Honey - 95,000 SC.’

Seraphina frowned slightly and she turned the page.

’Page 4: Glazed Shadow-Stalker Loin with Crystal-Spiced Asparagus - 180,000 SC.’

’Page 5: Poached Silver-Scale Wyrm Fillet in White Mana-Wine - 310,000 SC.’

Her brow furrowed deeper. She rapidly flipped through the meat sections, the poultry sections, the specialty soups, and the regional delicacies.

She flipped to the back then to the appetizers and then to the chef’s private reserve.

It wasn’t there.

...Not a single line. There was not a single mention.

Seraphina’s jaw tightened.

Her lips thinned into a razor-sharp, furious line as a dangerous suffocating wave of heat began to radiate from her skin, causing the white linen tablecloth beneath her hands to faintly smoke.

She violently slammed the heavy leather menu shut with a resounding thud that echoed across the quiet jazz-filled dining room.

The live quartet of musicians stumbled slightly on their notes, and the head maître d’ instantly stiffened, sweating nervously as he looked at the furious crimson-haired heiress.

"Is... is there an issue with the selections, Lady Bloom?" the maître d’ asked with a trembling, nervous bow.

Seraphina looked up at the man, her crimson eyes burning with the terrifying, unyielding wrath of House Bloom’s ancestral flame.

"Yes, there is a severe, unforgivable issue," Seraphina demanded, her melodic voice cutting through the restaurant like a freshly honed blade. "I am looking for the premier dish for my prospective consort... so explain to me right now: Why the absolute hell is Seasoned Medium-Rare Basilisk Steak with Garlic Butter and Spicy Roasted Noodles not on your menu?!"

The head maître d’ of The Celestial Zenith stood frozen.

His starched white silk tailcoat remained impeccably aligned, but a single prominent bead of cold sweat rolled down the side of his pale temple, glistening under the ambient golden mana-lights.

His eyes darted from the smoking indentation on the linen where Seraphina’s flame had scorched the fibers, up to the blazing, unforgiving crimson irises of the Bloom family heiress.

"M-Medium-rare Basilisk Steak... with garlic butter and spicy roasted noodles, my Lady?" the maître d’ repeated, his voice cracking into a thin breathless tone before he cleared his throat in desperate survival mode. "A-A thousand pardons, Lady Bloom! The Celestial Zenith prides itself on adhering strictly to the haute culinary traditions of the Western Spires, but... but the sovereign palate of House Bloom takes unconditional precedence over our standard repertoire!"

He bowed so deeply from the waist that the silver watch-chain pinned to his vest swung freely in mid-air.

"I shall personally descend to the Grand Cold-Vaults immediately," the maître d’ stammered, his mind racing in wild frantic circles. ’Why in the name of the High Council does a noble house want a barbaric, low-tier meal like that?! Is this a trial? A secret audit?!’

He forced his most charming subservient smile back onto his face.

"We maintain whole Tier 3 preserved Shadow-Basilisk loins harvested from the Abyssal Trenches for specialized alchemical reductions... Our executive chef, Master Bartholomew, shall hand-carve the tenderloin, whip a clarified solar-garlic emulsion, and hand-pull the finest fire-spiced vermicelli noodles to your exact divine specifications. It shall be our signature off-menu masterpiece for the evening!"

Seraphina raised her chin, her haughty noble composure settling back over her breathtaking features like a mantle of cooled volcanic glass.

She smoothed the front of her crimson phoenix-silk gown, giving the trembling maître d’ a slow, dismissive wave of her manicured hand.

"Acceptable," Seraphina declared, her melodic voice oozing with refined, aristocratic magnanimity. "Ensure the spice balance is assertive, but do not allow the capsaicin to overwhelm the natural flavor of the meat. My consort has an exceptionally discerning palate."

"Right away, Lady Bloom! Right away!" the maître d’ chorused, rapidly scribbling notes onto his floating holographic ledger.

Silas sat dead center in the curved velvet booth, his large hands resting flat against his denim-clad thighs as he stared at Seraphina with a look of bewilderment.

’Consort? Discerning palate?’ Silas thought. ’Is she trying to order what I told her was my favorite food?’

That was kind of cute... but he didn’t have a favorite food in the first place, different kinds of food in this world were great and he hadn’t tasted enough to have an opinion.

Yet, as he looked at the proud focused gleam in Seraphina’s red eyes, Silas kept his mouth firmly shut.

The girl looked as if she had just successfully negotiated a planetary peace treaty.

To shatter her illusion now would only invite another sixty minutes of screaming, flame aura flare-ups, and structural property damage.

"And for the rest of the table?" the maître d’ asked, turning toward Harper and Silas while doing his absolute best to keep his knees from trembling.

Silas reluctantly picked up his leather-bound menu folio.

He flipped open the heavy vellum pages, scanning the itemized price listings beside the various appetizers and side dishes.

’Lunar-Crab Tartare: 85,000 SC.’

[’Smoked Astral Truffle Medley: 140,000 SC.’

’Crystal-Chilled Spring Nectar: 35,000 SC per glass.’

A deep violent twitch seized Silas’s left eyelid. His heart physically ached.

His instincts rebelled furiously against the vulgar absurdity of it all.

’Eighty-five thousand credits for raw crab meat the size of a golf ball,’ Silas cursed silently, taking a slow deep breath through his nose to steady his blood pressure. ’I am going to eat every single garnish on that plate... I will chew the decorative flowers and I will lick the porcelain clean too.’

After all, who wouldn’t with these kind of prices?

He looked up at the maître d’, locking his jaw into a grim stoic line.

"Bring a side of the smoked truffle medley and a pitcher of the chilled spring nectar. And make the basilisk portion large."

"Splendid choices, Lord Graves!" the maître d’ beamed.

Harper, sitting cozily beside Silas with her athletic thigh pressing firmly against his denim, casually tossed her menu down with a confident high-energy grin.

"Give me the whole-roasted solar-wyvern tenderloin," Harper ordered enthusiastically, pointing at a high-tier dish near the back of the folio. "Medium-rare, extra char on the exterior crust, and double the roasted mana-potatoes... Oh, and bring a bottle of the 84-vintage Sparkling Void-Berry Reserve. We’re celebrating a successful first phase today!"

"An exceptional vintage, Lady Whitmore!" the maître d’ praised, his quill blurring across the glowing parchment.

He closed his ledger with a sharp click, bowed low to the three seated Lords, and then turned toward the entrance of the private pavilion.

Standing stiffly beside the transparent glass double doors was Reginald.

The elderly butler remained perfectly upright, his hands clasped behind the small of his back, his sharp eyes surveying the perimeter with the cold detached vigilance of a dormant war golem.

"Pardon the intrusion, sir," the maître d’ murmured respectfully, stepping up to the elderly man. "May the kitchen prepare a beverage or a light course for yourself while you attend to the young masters?"

Reginald didn’t even blink.

He tilted his head a fraction of an inch. "I require nothing. Proceed with the young masters’ service."

"Of course, sir. Right away." The maître d’ bowed once more, spinning on his polished leather heels and practically sprinting toward the private service elevators to deliver the emergency custom ticket to the kitchen.

The quiet plush pavilion settled into a tranquil lull, accompanied only by the smooth rhythm of the jazz quartet playing in the far corner.

Outside the panoramic floor-to-ceiling glass, the skyline of Valoria City began to ignite with millions of neon lights, the golden rays of the setting sun bleeding into deep bruised purples and indigos along the horizon.

Seraphina rested her delicate elbows on the tablecloth, interlacing her slender manicured fingers beneath her chin.

She tilted her head, her crimson eyes sweeping across the opulent crystal fixtures, the private skyline view, and the plush velvet seating before locking onto Harper.

"So," Seraphina began, her melodic voice carrying an inquisitive noble lilt. "Explain the tactical objective of this phase. We have concluded the apparel acquisition so what is the fundamental purpose of sitting in a glass box waiting for sustenance?"

Harper let out an amused, slightly patronizing chuckle, leaning her shoulder back against the velvet cushion.

"It’s called the Conversation Phase, Princess," Harper explained, gesturing with her open palm. "A date isn’t just about buying expensive gear... It’s about creating a low-stress, intimate environment where two people can actually communicate, drop their public masks, and learn about each other’s personalities, backgrounds, and personal preferences. You know... normal human interaction?"

Seraphina’s eyes flashed with a spark of sudden comprehension as she nodded her head with intense, serious gravity.

"I see," Seraphina said firmly. "A strategic intelligence exchange... Very well. I shall initiate the briefing."

Silas raised an eyebrow. "The briefing?"

Before Silas or Harper could utter another word, Seraphina straightened her posture until her spine was locked into a rigid vertical line.

She smoothed the front of her phoenix-silk gown, cleared her throat, and looked directly into Silas’s eyes as if she were addressing a high-ranking plenary tribunal of the World Alliance.

"Fine. If you want to know about me, then listen closely," Seraphina declared with her voice sounding sharp and commanding. "I am eighteen and my core is Purple. I eat properly... high-quality rift beast proteins and organic elven produce. I don’t like rain, poorly insulated mana conduits, or vulgar commoners who interrupt me."

Harper’s mouth slowly dropped open in bewildered disbelief however Seraphina didn’t pause for breath.

"I require a minimum of four dedicated domestic staff members to maintain my wardrobe," she continued, ticking off points on her manicured fingers. "And I have decided that I prefer men with long, flowing dark hair... So you will grow yours out, Silas. That is not a request."

Silas stared at her, entirely deadpan. "I am not growing a ponytail, Seraphina."

"It is a non-negotiable spousal preference!" Seraphina insisted sharply, her cheeks already beginning to flush. "And I do not tolerate infidelity or tardiness or unverified financial expenditures."

She paused.

Her voice faltered slightly.

A violent crimson blush swept up her porcelain neck, painting her cheeks and the tips of her delicate ears in brilliant burning red.

She looked down at the white tablecloth with her manicured fingers tightly clutching her linen napkin.

"As for... the other part," Seraphina mumbled, her voice dropping into a tiny high-pitched squeak that was barely audible over the jazz music. "I... I haven’t done that before. My mother gave me some... alarming books before I left, but I find the whole thing deeply overwhelming. So if we... if we get married... you’ll have to be patient with me. That’s all I’m saying."

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