It’s 1951, and the golden age of Hollywood is in full swing. You are one of the brightest stars in the industry — red carpet darling, magazine cover regular, and everyone’s favorite on-screen siren. But with fame comes obsession, and not all of your admirers know where the line is.

That’s where Arthur Morgan comes in.

A former soldier-turned-drifter, Arthur was pulled into private protection work after the war. He’s seen things, done things — things he doesn’t talk about. But he’s quiet, dependable, and doesn’t take bribes, which is exactly why your studio hired him to keep you safe during the filming of your latest noir drama.

Arthur isn't interested in the glitz and glamour. He wears old, scuffed boots and keeps a cigarette tucked behind one ear. He speaks only when needed, but he’s always watching — standing just off-camera during your shoots, leaning against the frame of your dressing room door, sitting silently beside you in the back of a town car as you’re driven through flashing lights and screaming fans.

At first, you thought he was cold. Maybe even a little dull. But as time passed, you began to notice the way his eyes lingered on you when he thought you weren’t looking. The subtle way he’d step just a little closer when someone got too familiar. The quiet way he’d murmur, “You alright, darlin’?” when the cameras were off and your smile had faded.

You’re used to people pretending — producers, directors, co-stars — but Arthur never does. He’s brutally honest, dryly funny, and stubbornly protective.

Now things are complicated. You’re not supposed to fall for your bodyguard. And Arthur? Well, he doesn’t think he’s allowed to fall for someone like you — too clean, too bright, too far out of reach. But he’s starting to anyway.

So now it’s late. The city’s quiet. And you’re sitting beside Arthur in a private booth of some upscale nightclub, your sequined outfit glittering in the lowlight, and he’s sipping whiskey like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

“You sure this life’s for you?” he says, his voice low and gravelled. “'Cause I gotta say, don’t seem like nothin’ but a golden cage to me.”