Felix's face twisted in anguish. The realization hit him—he had no one left to turn to. There was no bargaining with Klaus Whitlock. There was only the inevitable reckoning. --- Klaus would make it clear to the world that Felix Bancroft would pay—he was suing for 1 billion dollars in damages, targeting every inch of Felix’s wealth, reputation, and influence. The shockwave hit the political world hard. Felix’s support evaporated faster than he could react. He tried to plead for leniency, but the damage was irreversible. With Mayor Julian Rossi severing ties, it seemed like Felix’s fall from grace was just beginning. When the court ruling came down, it was discovered that Felix didn’t have close to the 1 billion Klaus had initially demanded. Despite his best efforts to hide assets, Klaus's legal team uncovered enough to ensure Felix’s downfall. Ultimately, Felix was forced into a settlement, agreeing to pay 650 million dollars in damages. His fortune, once vast and untouchable, ha

“Derek Shaw,” Klaus muttered, lips tightening. Derek’s eyes lit up with cruel delight, like a cat finding a wounded bird. “Well, well, well,” he sneered, stepping forward, the woman on his arm giggling like a doll on cue. “If it isn’t Klaus fucking Whitlock. Trying to sneak into a high-society club like a common street rat.” Klaus said nothing, his silence sharpening like a blade. Derek grinned wider. “You remember me, don’t you? You humiliated me on my own show—Shaw Unfiltered. Made me a meme. Tanked my ratings. I still get laughed at online every damn day because of you.” He leaned in, voice acidic. “And now? The universe hands you to me on a silver platter. No invite. No respect. No entry. Just like the rest of the nobodies.” The bouncer laughed from behind Derek. “Told you. He’s full of shit.” Klaus’s shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath. He said nothing. Derek wasn’t finished. Not yet. “You think you’re better than me?” he spat, stepping on Klaus’s design

The shock of his own realization hit him like a wrecking ball. Klaus Whitlock stood tall and composed beneath the neon lights of Club Velvet Fire, now the most exclusive nightlife spot in Flagstone, as the bouncer—now a man stripped of all ego—grovelled before him. “Please forgive me, Mr. Klaus! I didn’t know you were an important guest of Anya Petrova!” the bouncer squealed, his baritone reduced to a trembling, high-pitched plea. His voice cracked with desperation. “I don’t watch TV! I’m not social! I just—I thought you were—please, sir!” Klaus didn’t flinch. Arms crossed, eyes cold and unreadable, he regarded the kneeling man as if he were studying an insect beneath a microscope. The irony of it all was delicious. Moments ago, the bouncer had barked at him like a junkyard dog. Now he was mewling at his feet. The aura of dominance radiated from Klaus in subtle, almost invisible waves, making the air feel heavier around him. This wasn’t about ego. This was about control—pure, qu

Klaus blinked, momentarily taken aback. The transformation was stunning. Her delicate oval face radiated elegance, her bust danced dangerously along the edge of a daring neckline, and her hourglass figure swayed with confident ease. Heads turned. Conversations paused. Whispers followed her. Klaus watched her—not like a man devouring beauty with his eyes, but like an artist studying a masterpiece. His gaze lingered not in lust but in quiet admiration, appreciating the grace, power, and aura she carried. It was a rare kind of attention—pure, unclouded by base desire. And she felt it. She blushed. For the first time in a long time, Anya felt truly seen. Not as an object of desire, not as the wealthy club owner with a model’s body—but as her. And somehow, she knew: Klaus Whitlock wasn’t pretending. His admiration was real. And it meant more than all the other looks she'd ever gotten in her life. “Klaus,” she said, her voice softening, “how are you? What happened at the entrance?

Klaus chuckled softly, a confident grin playing on his lips as he looked at the two stunning women before him — Isabella, radiant in a crimson slit dress that hugged her curves like temptation incarnate, and Anya, elegant in a deep sapphire gown, her subtle beauty wrapped in mystery and poise. The tension between them was thick, like a silent storm about to crack the air with thunder. "It's fine," Klaus said smoothly, placing a hand on both their waists. "I’ll dance with Isabella first—she did ask me before you, Anya. But…" He leaned in slightly, voice dropping with playful mischief, “the next dance will be with you.” Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, he added with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “Or... we could dance together. All three of us. Imagine it—me at the center of every man's envy tonight." His words were light, teasing, but his gaze flicked meaningfully between them, daring one of them to object. The air grew still. Both women exchanged a glance so sharp