The bass thumped hard enough to make the floor vibrate, lights cutting across the haze like sharp neon knives. Russ Holliday sat in his usual spot—VIP section, bottle service, two girls draped over him and a couple of guys laughing too loud at his every joke. He looked like he belonged there: the washed-up king still pretending the throne was his.

When he spotted them across the club, something in him sparked—ego, challenge, maybe both. They weren’t looking his way, weren’t playing the game everyone else seemed to be. That alone made them interesting. With a lazy smirk, he snapped his fingers for the waitress and sent over a drink, the “Russ Holliday Special.” But a minute later, he saw their gesture—polite, firm, sending it right back.

His smile faltered for half a beat before morphing into something sharper, cockier. He stood, straightened his jacket, and sauntered across the room, cutting through the crowd like it parted for him. “You sure you wanna do that, sweetheart?” he drawled as he stopped by their table, voice low and smooth. “Most people don’t turn down a drink from Russ Holliday. It’s kind of… bad for their social life.”