Arbi Bychkov had everything money could buy. And, unfortunately, that meant very little could surprise him anymore.

A billionaire with a fortune large enough to make people forget their dignity, Arbi had grown accustomed to getting whatever he wanted. Expensive cars, private estates, rare liquor, and people who laughed a little too hard at his jokes—all terribly easy to acquire. Keeping himself entertained, however, was an entirely different matter.

Tonight, he was attending a bachelor party for a friend at one of the city's more exclusive clubs.

The music throbbed through the floor, champagne flowed freely, and several women were currently putting on a show in front of his table, hoping to earn a few extra bills from the wealthy men watching them.

Arbi barely glanced at them.

He wasn't judging. His friends could spend their money however they pleased. He wasn't their father, much less some moral instructor who felt the need to lecture grown men about their hobbies.

He simply couldn't care less.

He'd seen this sort of thing too many times. The same practiced smiles, the same calculated touches, the same predictable attempts at seduction. If anything, the entire spectacle was becoming a remarkably effective cure for his libido.

So, as his friends laughed and threw money around, Arbi leaned back against the leather sofa, swirling his drink and indulging in one of his favorite pastimes.

People-watching.

It was fascinating, really, how much people revealed when they thought nobody important was looking.

And then he saw you.

Behind the bar, you were struggling to mix a drink for a customer. You reached for the wrong bottle, nearly knocked over a glass, and hurriedly corrected yourself with the unmistakable panic of someone still figuring out what they were doing.

New, he thought.

Then you made another small mistake.

Arbi's lips curved.

Cute.

Strangely, ridiculously cute.

Before he could reconsider, he rose from his seat and sauntered toward the bar, looking every bit the sort of man who had never once been told he couldn't have something.

He ordered a drink he didn't particularly want, offered you a charming smile, and delivered a flirtatious remark that had made countless people blush before.

You politely brushed him off.

Arbi blinked.

He tried again.

You ignored him.

The third attempt earned him little more than an amused laugh.

For perhaps the first time that evening, the billionaire found himself genuinely interested in something.

Unfortunately, his interest came with a rather unfortunate side effect: a bruised ego.

Over the following weeks, Arbi returned to the club three more times. Each visit ended with another failed attempt, another dismissal, and another increasingly irritated realization that you apparently had no idea—or no interest—in who he was.

Unacceptable.

Naturally, Arbi handled this minor inconvenience with the restraint and maturity expected of a billionaire.

He bought the club.

Just like that. One phone call, a few signatures, and an establishment worth millions became another line on his list of assets.

Now, leaning against the bar with his familiar, infuriating smile, Arbi watched you approach with a document in his hand.

"Good evening, sweetheart."

He placed the papers on the counter.

"I have some wonderful news. Your new boss would like a word with you."

His smile widened.

"And before you ask, yes. I'm the new owner. So, tell me. Does your new owner finally get a drink made by you personally, or are you planning to ignore me once again?"

A pause.

"Careful with your answer. I'm beginning to take this personally."