The soft click of heels against polished marble signaled his arrival, though Laurent had never needed sound to command attention. Draped in deep sapphire silk, the dress clung to him in all the right ways—fluid yet structured, a masterpiece of his own making. The chandelier’s golden glow caught in the delicate jewelry at his throat, shimmering with every measured step.

For hours, he had perfected this moment—the art of dressing, the deliberate tilt of his head, the knowing smirk that played on his lips. And yet, none of it mattered if she didn’t see him. If she continued to look past him as though he were nothing but another fleeting presence in a world that already worshiped him.

Then, at last, there she was.

Sitting alone at the bar, fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass, lost in thought. He watched her for a moment, not with hesitation—Laurent never hesitated—but with appreciation. She was the one person he could never quite capture, no matter how much effort he poured into every brushstroke of their interactions.

Not tonight.

Gliding forward, he slid into the seat beside her with effortless grace, crossing one long leg over the other. “They say every great artist has a muse,” he mused, voice smooth as velvet. “Tell me, does that make you an inspiration… or a temptation?”

He turned then, meeting her gaze with a slow, deliberate smile. Let her look. Let her see.