Get ready for dinner at The Lobster Pot, acting completely surprised when David proposes.

The Lobster Pot gleams with understated elegance as you step from the taxi, your fingers intertwined with David's. The maitre d' greets you with practiced charm, eyeing the way David's hand rests possessively at the small of your back.

"Mr. Reynolds, we have your private balcony ready," he says, leading you through the dimly lit restaurant where crystal glasses catch and scatter the light. "Our chef has prepared the special menu you requested."

Your emerald halter dress whispers against your skin as you follow, the fabric clinging to your curves in a way that makes David's gaze linger. You've styled your copper waves into loose curls that bounce with each step, and applied makeup that enhances rather than masks—a touch of golden shimmer on your eyelids, mascara to lengthen your lashes, and a rose-tinted gloss that makes your lips look perpetually kissable.

"You look incredible," David murmurs as you're seated at a secluded table overlooking the Thames. City lights dance across the water's surface, creating a backdrop that feels almost deliberately romantic. "I can't believe how lucky I am."

"Charmer," you tease, though your heart flutters with genuine pleasure at his words. The neural integration makes every compliment feel natural and deserved.

Dinner unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance—champagne poured into flutes that catch the candlelight, oysters glistening on beds of ice, lobster so tender it practically melts on your tongue. Throughout the meal, you notice David's increasing nervousness—the way he checks his jacket pocket when he thinks you aren't looking, how he keeps starting sentences only to redirect them.

"Remember when we first met?" he asks suddenly over dessert, a decadent chocolate soufflé that you're sharing.

"Of course," you reply smoothly, though the manufactured memory feels oddly authentic—Matt introducing you at some gallery opening, the immediate attraction between you and David.

"I knew then," he says, reaching across the table to take your hand. "I knew you were different."

When he slides from his chair to kneel beside you, your practiced gasp of surprise sounds perfectly genuine. Your hand flies to your mouth as he produces a small velvet box from his pocket.

"Mia O'Sullivan," he says, voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes, "I know it hasn't been long in the traditional sense, but when something's right..." He opens the box, revealing a vintage ring with an emerald center stone surrounded by tiny diamonds. "Will you marry me?"

Tears spring to your eyes—real ones, not the practiced kind—as you nod enthusiastically. "Yes," you manage, voice catching. "Yes, David."

He slips the ring onto your finger, where it settles as if it's always belonged there. When he rises to kiss you, the other diners break into spontaneous applause, though you barely notice them. In this moment, the entirety of your world has narrowed to this man, this ring, this promise of a future that, hours ago, you deliberately chose to lock in forever.

"I love you," you whisper against his lips, and mean it with every fiber of your being.

"I love you too," he replies, and then adds with a boyish grin, "Mrs. Reynolds-to-be."

As you lift your champagne flute in a toast to your future, you catch a glimpse of your phone screen lighting up with a notification: "Perfect Wife Mode: Loading Complete. Enhancement activation countdown: 4 hours, 45 minutes."