Infinite Rebate: I Get Richer Every Time I Spend

The masked men moved fast.

They stormed into the lounge without hesitation, chairs scraping and toppling as they cut through the open seating area, the sudden violence of their entrance shattering the calm that had settled over the room seconds earlier. Glasses shattered against the floor. A table flipped onto its side, spilling ice and champagne across the polished tile.

Somewhere near the bar, one of the staff members let out a sharp, startled cry before scrambling backward into the kitchen, and the rest of them followed; abandoning trays, ducking behind counters, anywhere that wasn’t in the open.

Gracie saw them first.

She spotted the black clothing, the masks, the way they moved in that tight, practiced formation, and something inside her chest seized shut. Every scattered thought she’d been holding together since sitting down with Lucas collapsed into one single, horrifying certainty.

It’s Lucas.

He sent them.

The realization hit her like a physical blow, cold and absolute, cutting straight through the last of her denial. Of course he did.

What man would sit across from her, pour champagne, and speak so calmly after she had helped tear his company apart in front of millions? That steady voice. Those unreadable eyes. The easy two hundred million that never came with a single demand. None of it had been generosity. It had been patience. The kind of patience that waited for the perfect moment to close the trap.

She had been a fool.

A complete, arrogant fool for thinking she could humiliate a man like that and then sit here drinking his money’s worth of champagne like nothing would follow.

Her body moved before the thought finished forming.

She shoved her palms against the table hard enough to rattle the glass, legs already coiling under her as she prepared to launch toward the back exit ~ toward the kitchen, the hallway, anywhere that wasn’t this room.

She never made it out of the chair.

"Sit the fuck down!"

The shout cracked across the lounge like a whip. One of the men nearest the table raised a blade, the metal flashing once under the warm overhead lights before the point locked directly on her chest.

"Don’t move! Don’t you fucking move!"

Gracie’s legs gave out.

She dropped back into the seat so hard the chair legs scraped loudly against the floor. Her hands were shaking ~ not lightly, but violently, the kind of tremor that came when fear ripped through the body faster than the mind could process it. Her breath collapsed into short, useless gasps. Her vision narrowed until the only thing left in focus was the blade aimed at her.

Every nerve in her body felt pulled tight at once.

And still, across from her, Lucas had not moved an inch.

Instead, he reached for the champagne bottle still sitting between them, tilted it, and poured a slow, unhurried stream into his glass.

He lifted the glass, studied it for a moment, and took a slow sip.

Like nothing was happening.

Like six armed men hadn’t just stormed into the building.

The leader noticed.

He was the tallest of the group, the one whose movements carried just a little more authority than the rest, whose eyes swept the room with the calm, practiced calculation of someone used to being obeyed.

He crossed the space toward their table in a few long strides, shoved the small table aside with the flat of his boot; sending glasses skidding and shattering against the floor; and reached down, grabbing Gracie by the shoulder.

He yanked her up out of her seat.

She let out a startled cry, her body wrenched forward, fingers scrambling uselessly against the arm of the chair for something to hold onto.

That was when Lucas finally spoke.

His voice was quiet. Almost bored.

"Can’t you see we’re talking?"

The leader turned toward him slowly, as if noticing him for the first time; really noticing him. His eyes swept over Lucas’s frame, the expensive but understated clothes, the untouched confidence, the young face that hadn’t shown a single flicker of fear since the moment they walked in. It was the look of a man doing quick math and arriving at a comfortable, dismissive answer.

Just a kid. Just some rich boyfriend along for the ride.

"Keep quiet," the man said, his tone flat with contempt. "This doesn’t involve you. Don’t drag yourself into this."

Lucas’s brow lifted slightly, an expression that might have almost passed for amusement if it weren’t so still.

"Really," he said. "This doesn’t concern me. But you’re the one interrupting my conversation, and you’re telling me it doesn’t concern me."

Something about the calm, unhurried way he said it made the leader’s jaw tighten.

He stepped closer, close enough that his shadow fell over the table, and jabbed a thick finger toward Lucas’s chest.

"I’ve warned you, kid," he said, voice dropping low, dangerous. "This is the last time. Mind your fucking business."

He didn’t wait for a response.

He turned back to Gracie, tightening his grip on her arm and hauling her forward. She fought him instantly, twisting her shoulder hard, digging her heels against the floor, a raw, panicked sound tearing out of her throat as she struggled against the hold.

The fabric of her top strained and slipped with the violence of the movement, nearly baring her shoulder entirely, but she didn’t stop fighting.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, clawing at his fingers. "Let GO~"

The rest of the sentence never made it out.

Lucas moved.

There was no warning in it, no visible shift in his expression, no tensing of his shoulders that might have telegraphed what was coming. One moment he was still seated, glass in hand, watching the scene unfold with mild, detached interest.

The next, he was standing.

His hand closed around the back of the leader’s collar, fingers locking into the fabric with a grip that didn’t ask permission. And then he pulled.

Hard.

The man’s entire body jerked backward, ripped clean off his feet, his grip on Gracie tearing loose as he stumbled violently away from her.

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