Near the stage, Julian Voss watched her longer than the moment required. Son of the owner, the kind of name that made people adjust their posture without realizing it.
Elias, standing beside him, noticed.
Elias (quietly): “Don’t do it.”
Julian: “Do what?”
Elias: “Whatever you’re about to do. This isn’t a bar. It’s a power room. You embarrass her, you look like a predator. You embarrass yourself, your father will pretend he didn’t raise you.”
Julian (dry): “Noted.”
Then he stood anyway.
Mina was approaching the center aisle when Julian stepped into her path—not blocking her body, but blocking her route.
Mina: “Good evening, sir. Champagne?”
Julian didn’t take a glass.
Julian: “What’s your name?”
Mina: “Mina.”
Julian repeated it, like he wanted to get it right.
Julian: “Mina.”
She shifted, ready to move on.
Mina: “Would you like a glass?”
Julian: “Can I have your number?”
The air sharpened. Nearby conversations slowed, like people were leaning in without moving.
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