He only saw her.

The curve of her neck as she tilted her head, the way the low-cut back of her dress dipped just above the swell of her spine. She was a masterpiece in a room full of charcoal sketches.

And there was a hand on her arm.

A hand that didn't belong to him.

He watched her laugh. Polite. Distant. The way she laughed when a subordinate told a joke she didn't find funny.

She shifted her weight, pulling back a fraction of an inch.

The man followed.

Dazai's smile didn't waver. It never did. He set the glass down on the tray of a passing waiter.

There was no rush in his stride as he crossed the polished floor. No hurry. What was the point of rushing when the outcome was already certain?

He reached them just as the man's fingers began to drift higher—sliding from her elbow toward her shoulder, trailing, testing.

His fingers tightened against her hip. Just once. A promise.