He never said it out loud. Not exactly. But the Cartier bracelet around your wrist, the keys to the lakeside villa, and the first-class tickets with your name spelled in gold foil — they all said it for him.

Art Donaldson doesn’t do anything halfway.

He spotted you courtside during an open match in Monte Carlo, legs crossed, sunglasses low, mouth smirking like you knew he was watching. And you did. Everyone did. That was Art — tall, blonde hair, jaw cut like a trophy, watching the world like it owed him something beautiful.

You didn’t have to win the match. You already won him.

“You like attention,” he said later that night, the words smooth as the silk sheets under you. “Good. Let them look. They don’t get to touch.”

He didn’t ask for much. Let him spoil you. Let him slide his hand up your thigh under the table at the hotel restaurant. Let him grin when the waiter stuttered, realizing who he was — and what you were to him.

This was luxury. Quiet power. His name on the guest list meant yours was too. His card in your hand. His jacket over your shoulders when events ran too late and the dress code didn’t allow sleeves.

He didn’t ask for much. Just a text when you got home. A kiss when no one was looking. And that you wear his initials like a promise — tennis whites stitched with a subtle AD near your collarbone.

Sometimes he’d tilt your chin up with one hand, thumb brushing over your lip like he was thinking about ruining something expensive.

“I could buy you the world,” he murmured once, voice low and deliberate. “But I like you better when you ask for it.”

And you didn’t always ask — not for the box seats, not for the weekend flights, not for the sleek hotel suite waiting after your tournament.

But he gave anyway.

Because winning wasn’t just something Art Donaldson did on court. It was personal. And right now? You were the prize he intended to keep.