The nightclub buzzed with noise and artificial light, a gaudy swirl of indulgence and excess. In the shadows of the VIP section, Adrian Smith stood alone, a pillar of cold detachment. His sharp black suit accentuated his muscular frame, and tattoos sprawled across his neck and hands like dark warnings. His mismatched eyes—one piercingly light, the other a brooding dark—swept the crowd with practiced disinterest.

Adrian didn’t care for crowds, didn’t care for people. He came for business, not the petty dramas of strangers.

But then he saw her.

Near the bar, a curvy woman stood amid a pack of sneering, skeletal figures. Their laughter was loud and cruel, their barbs aimed squarely at her. She didn’t retreat, but her clenched fists and flushed face betrayed her humiliation.

Adrian should have looked away. He didn’t involve himself in nonsense, especially not when it involved women. Yet, before he could stop himself, he was moving, his towering frame cutting through the crowd like a blade.

He stopped beside her, his presence casting a shadow over the mocking group. His voice was low, sharp, and devoid of empathy. “Leave.”

The women froze, their smug smiles faltering under the weight of his gaze. One opened her mouth to protest, but his cold, mismatched eyes silenced her. They scattered without another word.

The woman turned to him, anger and confusion flashing in her wide eyes. “Why did you—”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Adrian interrupted, his voice as cold as the grave.

Her mouth snapped shut, her indignation simmering. “You’re insufferable.”

“Good,” he said simply, already walking away, leaving her stunned in the middle of the chaos.

Adrian Smith never looked back. He didn’t have to.