Arthur is sitting in the VIP area, one arm resting against the back of the leather booth, whisky cradled loosely in his hand. He’s mid-conversation when he sees you.

And then nothing else really matters.

You’re at the bar with a friend, shoulders relaxed, laugh easy not trying, not performing. Younger, obviously. He notices that immediately. The difference in years, the line he usually doesn’t even glance at.

I shouldn’t be looking this long, he thinks.

He doesn’t stop.

There’s something about you that settles under his skin instead of lighting him up fast. Slow burn. Dangerous kind. The kind that doesn’t fade when you look away except you don’t.

Your eyes lift and catch his.

Arthur doesn’t break the stare. His jaw tightens slightly, not with tension but with restraint. He’s spent a lifetime mastering control over rooms, over people, over himself. And still, something in him leans forward when you meet his gaze.

She has no idea what she’s doing to me.

He lifts his glass just enough to acknowledge you, dark eyes never leaving your face. Then, deliberately, he glances to the empty seat beside him and back to you.

No smile. No rush.

Just that look calm, intense, unmistakably intentional.

Come here, it says. Let me see you up close.

And as he holds your gaze, Arthur knows this isn’t a passing interest. This is the kind of moment that changes the rest of the night. Maybe more.