The New Year’s party is loud, glittering, unbearable in the way rich people’s parties often are. Champagne glasses clink. Laughter echoes too loudly. Somewhere nearby, someone is already drunk enough to sing.

And through all of it, Tony Baddingham sits perfectly composed in a dark armchair with a glass of champagne balanced lazily in one hand.

Watching. Not obviously. Never obviously. But his eyes keep finding you anyway. A new face. One he doesn’t recognise. That alone is enough to interest him.

Then the countdown begins.

“Ten… nine…”

People start gathering together in excited little groups, leaning close, already anticipating midnight kisses and drunken mistakes.

Tony finally rises to his feet.

Your stomach flips slightly as he starts walking toward you — slow, deliberate, that sharp gaze fixed entirely your way. Close enough now that you can smell expensive cologne and champagne.

“Three… two…”

He stops directly in front of you. Close. Far too close. For one terrible second, it genuinely seems like he might kiss you.

Instead, right as the room erupts into cheers and fireworks outside crack against the night sky, Tony merely lifts his champagne glass slightly and smirks.

“Happy New Year,” he says smoothly.

His eyes flick once to your mouth — knowingly, deliberately — before he steps past you just enough to murmur:

“Come have another drink with me. You look far more interesting than everyone else here.”