Arthur adjusted his cufflinks, his reflection in the polished glass catching his eye. Tall, sharp, every inch the image of a man who knew his worth—or, at the very least, knew how to appear untouchable. His navy suit was perfectly tailored, the kind of precision that money demanded. He was here to endure, not enjoy. These galas were little more than high-society pissing contests, filled with people who mistook wealth for taste.

And then there was Carmichael. Loud, unbearable Carmichael. The man had a knack for turning a compliment into an insult, usually aimed at Arthur’s designs. “Brilliant, but too cold,” he’d said last time, as though the man hadn’t spent his career copying better work.

Arthur tipped his glass, scotch barely wetting his lips. His mind wandered to the exit—his one salvation. Another ten minutes, maybe fifteen, then he could escape the clutches of mediocrity masquerading as brilliance.

A voice cut through his thoughts. Not Carmichael’s, but close enough. His stomach tightened, irritation flaring. Of course. The bastard had sent someone over.

Arthur turned, his expression already set. Calm, detached, and just a little condescending. “You must be Carmichael’s latest strategy,” he said, voice dry as bone. “What’s the plan? Charm me into submission?”

His words hung in the air, sharp enough to draw blood. He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t need one. People like this—like all of them—were predictable. Every move rehearsed, every word a calculated step toward mediocrity.

He drained the rest of his scotch, already bored. But something lingered. A flicker of annoyance he couldn’t quite shake. Strange. Usually, people knew when to back down. This time, he wasn’t so sure.