Arthur didn't ask twice.
He simply looked over his shoulder with that signature grin and said, "You're coming tonight."
Rosie hesitated — she always did — but curiosity burned hotter than fear. And that's how she ended up in the middle of a neon-lit chaos she never imagined she'd step into.
The warehouse was alive. Lights pulsed from every corner. Music thundered against the walls. Bodies moved in waves on the dancefloor. Girls in leather. Guys with tattoos and loud laughs. No one cared who you were. It was a free-for-all of pleasure and madness.
And then, the crowd shifted. A buzz spread like wildfire.
"Race's starting!" someone shouted.
Rosie followed the energy, her heart racing as the sea of people moved toward the underground garage. Two cars lined up — sleek, powerful, and loud. One of them gleamed silver under the lights. Arthur's car.
He leaned against the hood, cigarette between his lips, his gaze locked with the guy opposite him — Wilson. Taller. Cockier. That familiar rival energy hung thick in the air.
"You sure about the bet?" Wilson said with a laugh.
Arthur scoffed. "Enjoy the car while it lasts."
But it didn't last.
The race was brutal — engines screaming, tires screeching, a blur of metal under city lights. But Wilson won. By a heartbeat.
Arthur stood still afterward, barely reacting. Then, without a word, he handed over the keys. Just like that.
"His first win," someone whispered. "Damn."
Rosie stood frozen. Not just stunned by the race — but by what came next.
Arthur, already eight shots in before the race, was now neck-deep in alcohol and chaos. She watched him kiss a girl he didn't even seem to know, her legs wrapped around his waist near the speakers. He laughed, staggered, popped another pill.
"Does he always…?" she turned to Harrison, one of his closest friends.
"Pretty much," Harrison said, unfazed. "This is just a Thursday."
Rosie's stomach turned.
This wasn't fun. This was dangerous.
She weaved through the crowd, trying to find Arthur, but he was already deeper in — laughing, drinking, dragging someone onto the dancefloor. His shirt was gone, his pupils wide, sweat glistening on his chest.
And then it got worse.
A guy — tall, unfamiliar, eyes too sharp — stepped toward her. "Haven't seen you here before," he said, moving closer. "You're…fresh."
Rosie stepped back. "I'm not interested."
But he didn't stop. He leaned in. Tried to grab her wrist. Went for a kiss.
And suddenly — bang.
Arthur's fist cracked against the guy's jaw. A second punch landed. Then a third.
Blood. Screams. The music cut.
Arthur had snapped.
Rosie grabbed his arm. "Enough!"
He didn't stop right away — but eventually, his breathing slowed. His hands trembled. "He touched you," he muttered.
"Let's go," Rosie whispered.
They left fast. No words spoken on the ride back, just the pounding echo of music still ringing in her head.
Back at Home...
The mansion was silent as they stepped inside. The contrast was dizzying. From fire to calm.
Arthur collapsed onto the couch, rubbing his face, his knuckles bleeding. "I'm such a fucking mess," he muttered.
Rosie stood there, still shaken. "Why do you let yourself go like that?"
He looked up, eyes hazy but honest. "Because this is how I survive."
"By destroying yourself?"
He laughed bitterly. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
Arthur leaned back. "This life — parties, girls, fights, music — it keeps me from sinking. I don't feel anything unless I'm drowning in something. I know it's not right. But for now, it's all I've got."
Rosie sat down, softly. "Then why did you stop that guy tonight?"
He looked at her. Something in his expression softened.
"Because you're not part of that world. And I don't want you to be."
A pause hung between them.
She smiled gently. "Still… you didn't seem to hate having me there."
"I didn't," he admitted.
And for the first time, Rosie saw something break through Arthur's tough, chaotic exterior — a flicker of something real. Something fragile.
And Arthur saw it too.
The innocence in her wasn't just curiosity anymore. It was dangerous — because it made him want to be better.
But he also knew… it might already be too late.
Later That Night...
The house had quieted further. Rosie brought Arthur a cold pack and sat beside him. His body was still warm from the chaos, but his mood had shifted. Calmer. Raw.
He turned toward her, brushing his thumb lightly across the back of her hand. "Why are you really here?"
Rosie didn't pull away. "Because no one deserves to feel that alone."
Arthur looked at her with something new in his eyes — not lust, not arrogance. Something deeper. "You scare me," he murmured.
"Why?"
"Because you see through everything."
She leaned in a little. "Maybe you need someone to."
The tension between them warmed again — gentler, yet charged. Arthur's hand rested lightly on her thigh. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just... there.
"Rosie..." he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. "You really don't belong in that world I took you to."
"Then don't go back to it," she said quietly. "Let it go."
He looked at her lips. She was close now. Too close. But he didn't want to stop.
He leaned forward, kissing her softly. Just a peck. Barely a moment.
Rosie blinked, stunned — but she didn't move. Instead, something bold sparked inside her. She placed her hand behind Arthur's neck and pulled him in for a second kiss — this one longer, real. Lip to lip.
They stayed that way for only a few seconds, but it shifted everything.
Then Rosie pulled back quickly, her breath shaky. "I-I'm sorry," she whispered, rushing toward her room.
Arthur didn't follow. He just sat there, stunned — like someone had knocked the wind out of him.
That kiss wasn't wild. It wasn't drunken. It was real.
And for a guy who never believed in anything lasting... it shook something deep.