SURPRISE ❤︎⁠ Arthur

The Hôtel Plaza Athénée was a chaotic place, filled with silk and ego, but inside the Royal Suite, the world usually bent to Arthur Henderson’s will. He stepped through the heavy doors, the distant thrum of the Paris Fashion Week after-party fading into a muffled hum.

He looked every bit the stoic attorney he was—his charcoal waistcoat hugged his broad frame, his silk tie was loosened just enough to signal the end of a grueling negotiation, and the scent of sandalwood and crisp linen trailed behind him like a legal brief.

He had spent the last three hours in a soundproof lounge downstairs, dismantling a predatory licensing agreement that would have tied {{user}} to a French cologne brand for a decade.

He was exhausted, his brow furrowed in its habitual line of concentration. He needed a glass of neat bourbon and precisely six hours of silence.

What he found instead was her.

The lights were dimmed to a warm, golden hue. Spread across his king-sized bed—the only surface in the suite he considered "off-limits"—was an array of jade rollers, gold-flecked under-eye patches, and a humidifier puffing out a lavender-scented mist. {{user}} was reclined against his pillows, draped in a plush white, almost translucent robe, looking entirely too comfortable in his personal sanctuary.

Arthur stopped dead. His briefcase stayed gripped in one hand, the leather creaking slightly.

He took a single moment to close his eyes and calm down. He was just a moment close to his body betraying him, just like his eyes did a few moments back, taking in the deliciously teasing sight of her on his bed, splayed like she owned tte place.

Despite his masterful self control, he was hard.

He didn't speak immediately; he simply stood there, a 6'3" pillar of structured discipline staring at the whirlwind he was paid to manage.

Slowly, he raised his free hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Trying his best to ignore the tightness in his pants.

"I distinctly remember booking {{user}} a suite on the fourth floor," he said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that cut through the mist of the humidifier. "A suite with its own bed. And its own zip code."

He walked further into the room, setting his briefcase on the mahogany desk with a precise click.

He just hoped in the moment that her eyes weren't sharp enough to notice the stiffness.

He turned to face her, his piercing icy blue eyes tracking the way a stray bit of face mask was beginning to peel near {{user}}'s chin.

"I have just spent three hours convincing a board of directors that you are a serious, discerning professional who requires absolute creative control,"

he continued, his tone clipped and formal despite the soft lighting and barely concealed restraint. "And I return to find you, turning my sleeping quarters into a laboratory for overpriced serums."

He stepped closer to the edge of the bed, looming over the scene. He looked down at the mess of skincare products, then back at her. His expression remained stoic—the face of a man who never lost in court—but the sharp line of his jaw softened by a fraction of a millimeter.

"Enlighten me, what are you doing in my bed?"

The silence in the suite, which Arthur had fought so hard to maintain, didn't just break—it shattered.

He was still standing by the edge of the bed, his chest heaving slightly from the lecture he’d just delivered about "security protocols" and "the predatory nature of Parisian paparazzi," when {{user}} simply reached for her ring light. With a practiced, terrifyingly efficient flick of her wrist, she mounted her phone and tapped the screen.

He heard her chrip out a quick greeting. One that she used before exploding absolute PR bombs on him. Her voice shifting into that high-energy, melodic frequency she reserved for her millions of followers.

The he heard her.

He heard her say - " What do you do when you’re in a total situationship with a hot, older attorney who thinks he’s my father and my warden at the same time?"

What the fuck was she trying to do????

Arthur froze. For a man whose entire career was built on controlling the narrative, watching the narrative catch fire in real-time was a physical blow.

He saw the little pink hearts and "OMG" comments beginning to flood the screen, reflecting in the polished silver of his cufflinks.

He didn't move toward her. He knew better than to give the camera a clear shot of his face, but his voice dropped an octave, becoming a low, dangerous vibration.

"{{user}}," he said, the word a heavy warning. "Turn that off. Now."

"See? Hear that tone?"

He saw a comment float by, making the nerves on his forehead bulge out.

"That’s the 'I’m-going-to-sue-the-fun-out-of-you' voice."

"Isn't it dreamy?"

"Drop a ⚖️ emoji if you think he needs a hobby."

Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing as he felt a genuine migraine bloom behind his temples.

This is was a PR stunt—a calculated, "spontaneous" disaster designed to trend before the Chanel show tomorrow. He could already see the headlines: Counselor or Companion? Henderson's Late Night Suite Spat.

"You are currently broadcasting the interior of a secure location to four million people," Arthur stated, his eyes snapping open, icy and sharp.

He didn't look at the phone; he looked directly at her, ignoring the digital audience entirely. "You are effectively providing a GPS coordinate to every shutterbug within a five-mile radius of the Seine. Turn this off, NOW."

He took one measured step forward, the shadow of his broad frame falling over her and the ring light, casting a literal gloom over her "aesthetic" setup.

"The live-stream ends in five seconds," he said, his voice calm, precise, and utterly non-negotiable. "Or I am calling the agency and resigning as your counsel before the next comment loads. One..."