Serena turned her head. Samantha Sharp stood a few feet away, holding a martini glass. She wore a tight red dress and a vicious smile.
"Well, well," Samantha drawled loudly. "Look who it is. Does the trailer park girl think she belongs in a place like this?"
Serena stared at her. Her expression was completely blank. She looked at Samantha the way one might look at a stain on the floor.
From the VIP balcony, Lucas watched Samantha Sharp stop a few feet away from Serena. His jaw tightened. He did not move, but his fingers drummed once against the railing—a slow, deliberate beat.
Samantha took Serena's silence as fear. She stepped closer, her heels clicking sharply.
"Word travels fast, Serena. Kicked out of the Sinclair house tonight like a stray dog. You have nothing."
A group of Samantha's friends giggled behind her. Other club patrons turned their heads, forming a tight circle around them to watch the drama.
Serena's lips curved into a slow, freezing smile.
"I heard the whispers at Mr. Sterling's last business luncheon," Serena said. Her voice was perfectly level. "Your father's stock is tanking, and he is desperately leveraging his offshore accounts just to make payroll. No one wants to work with him."
Samantha's smile vanished. Her eyes widened in absolute horror.
Serena took one step forward. "If you want your family to avoid bankruptcy court tomorrow morning, I suggest you walk away right now."
The humiliation hit Samantha hard. Her face turned purple with rage. With a furious shriek, she lunged forward and hurled the contents of her martini glass straight at Serena's face.
Serena didn't step back. She dropped her center of gravity and pivoted on her heel, gliding past Samantha's extended arm in one fluid motion. As she passed, she hooked her ankle cleanly behind Samantha's leading foot. The move was subtle, almost invisible—a whisper of contact that went unnoticed by everyone in the crowd.
But Samantha's momentum was already committed forward. Her heel caught against Serena's ankle, and her body pitched wildly off balance. She let out a startled yelp. Her arms flailed. The martini glass, still clutched in her hand, swung backward. The sticky liquid sloshed over the rim and drenched the front of her own expensive red dress.
She stumbled two clumsy steps before catching herself on a nearby table, chest heaving, martini dripping from her chin onto the ruined fabric.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a wave of poorly stifled snickers. Someone behind Serena let out an audible snort.
Samantha stared down at herself, mouth agape. Her soaked dress clung to her skin, the stain spreading in ugly, irregular patches. "You—" she sputtered, her voice cracking. "You tripped me!"
Serena raised an eyebrow, her expression a perfect mask of innocence. "You lunged at me with a drink and tripped over your own heels. Perhaps next time you should choose more practical footwear for starting fights."
Laughter rippled through the onlookers. Even one of Samantha's own friends pressed a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.
Samantha's face cycled through shades of crimson and white. Her hands trembled with rage. With a wordless, guttural scream, she snatched a full champagne flute from the table she'd crashed into and raised it high, ready to smash it over Serena's head.
Before Serena could move, a large hand shot out from the crowd and clamped around Samantha's wrist mid-swing. The champagne flute slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor.
Gregory Foster, the owner of the club, stood between them. His face was thunderous.
"You do not cause a scene in my club," Gregory barked. He released Samantha's wrist with a shove, making her stumble backward again. "Look at yourself. You attacked twice. You lost twice. You're done."
Samantha wiped frantically at her soaked dress, her chest heaving. "She tripped me! She ruined my dress! She insulted my family!"
Gregory gave her a look so cold she physically shrank back. "I watched you throw a drink at a woman who was standing still. Everything that happened after that, you brought on yourself." He turned to Serena. His eyes softened, hiding a deep layer of respect. "Are you hurt?"
Serena relaxed her shoulders. She shook her head.
In the dark, Lucas watched Gregory lean in close to his wife. A violent surge of jealousy twisted in his gut, but it was mixed with something else—a grudging admiration. That ankle hook had been clean. Professional, even. His wife was full of surprises.
"My father will hear about this, Gregory!" Samantha yelled, her voice now a tearful, desperate shriek. Her mascara had begun to run, leaving dark streaks down her cheeks.
Gregory snapped his fingers. Three massive bouncers stepped forward. "Put Miss Sharp and her friends on the permanent blacklist. Throw them out."
Samantha shrieked as the bouncers grabbed her arms. She kicked and thrashed, still dripping wet, her ruined dress clinging to her like a second skin. The crowd parted, several people openly laughing and raising their phones to record her humiliating exit. Her friends trailed behind, faces burning with secondhand embarrassment.
Gregory leaned closer to Serena. "There is a back exit through the employee hallway. It will be quieter for you."
Serena nodded. She needed to leave before Lucas decided to step out of the shadows.
She did not look back. She followed Gregory toward the heavy metal door marked 'Staff Only'.
Lucas watched her disappear down the hall. A faint, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Then he pulled out his phone and typed a message to Carter. Before he could hit send, Carter's voice crackled urgently through his earpiece. "Sir, security feeds show four known Syndicate thugs slipping into the back alley right behind her."
Lucas's blood ran cold. "Bring the Maybach to the rear exit. Block the alley. Now!" he ordered, already breaking into a dead sprint toward the stairs.
Serena walked down the dim hallway. Gregory opened the heavy steel door at the end. The smell of rotting garbage and damp concrete rushed in.
"Thank you," Serena said, stepping out into the alley.
The steel door slammed shut behind her. The alley was pitch black. The only sound was her heels clicking on the wet pavement.
A low, nasty whistle echoed from behind a dumpster.
Four large shadows stepped out, blocking the only exit to the street.
