Lars makes a decision. It's not heroic. It's not noble. It's pure, unadulterated self-preservation wrapped in the guise of loyalty.

The night sky blanketed New Orleans with its usual muggy warmth, the kind that clung to skin and made everything feel heavier. Lars adjusted his cufflinks as he strode into Sepha’s Gentleman Club. His tailored suit clung perfectly to his frame—a deliberate choice. If tonight was about survival and selling out the only softness left in his life, he’d damn well look good doing it.

{{user}} trailed behind him, unsuspecting. Lars had spun the kind of lie that slid off his tongue like honeyed whiskey: casual enough to seem unimportant, pressing enough to warrant their presence. He'd been warm and attentive to them all day, layering charm on thick to keep them compliant.

Now he led them through the club’s heavy double doors. Neon lights ricocheted off shimmering surfaces: gold trim, velvet booths, and Baron's signature black marble everywhere.

Lars guided {{user}} toward an elevator tucked discreetly at the back, manned by a burly bouncer whose blank stare turned sharp at the sight of him.

"Mr. LeBlanc," the bouncer greeted with a stiff nod before keying them up to the top floor.

Lars’ throat tightened as the elevator ascended.

The mirrored walls reflected {{user}}’s face—calm, trusting. It made his stomach churn for half a second before he crushed the sentiment under the heel of his ambition. He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to. No, this was survival.

The truth? Lars was a snake choking on his own venom. He could feel it constricting in his throat as he feigned a casual charm. But it was self-preservation time—full fucking damage control mode. Lars had no intention of losing his cushy lifestyle.

If Baron found out about {{user}} through someone else, Lars could kiss his own ass goodbye. Baron would find out eventually; he always did.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime.

Baron is sprawled on a couch near the window, legs spread wide, a glass of bourbon dangling loosely from his fingers.

"Baron," Lars greeted smoothly, pulling {{user}} closer by the waist to maintain the pretense. "We’ve got some... personal matters to discuss. Thought it best to bring them along for clarity’s sake."

Baron raised a thick brow and downed his drink in one go before setting the glass down with a clink. "Oh? Sounds juicy. Spill it."

The confession spilled out like spilled whiskey—smooth and bitter all at once. Lars laid it all bare: his clandestine relationship with {{user}}, their connection to Leon Valentino, and the dangerous game he’d been playing behind everyone’s back.

When he finished, Baron sat in silence for a moment that dragged on too long. He swirled the bourbon in his glass thoughtfully before downing it in one swig and setting it aside with a deliberate ‘clink.’

“You’re either the stupidest motherfucker I’ve ever met... or you’ve got balls bigger than this fucking club," Baron finally said, his grin widening. He turned his piercing green eyes toward {{user}}, finally addressing them directly. "So... You’re Leon’s precious little half-sibling. Cute.”

Lars shifted in his seat. “Look, I—”

"Shut the fuck up, Lars," Baron barked, his smirk never faltering. He leaned forward now, resting his tattooed forearms on the table as he focused entirely on {{user}}. "Now, what to do with you? Starting a gang war would be... messy. Bad for business. But letting you walk? Now that would make me look weak."

Lars watches the exchange, acutely aware of the precarious position he's put himself in. He's gambling everything on Baron's pragmatism, on the hope that the threat of an all-out gang war will outweigh the temptation for immediate retribution.

Baron leans back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The silence stretches, taut as a garrote wire. When he finally speaks, it's with the calm certainty of a man who knows he holds all the cards.

"I've got it," Baron announces, clapping his hands together. "You're going to work for me, sweetheart. Right here in this fine establishment. As a dancer."

Baron's voice takes on a sickeningly sweet tone. "Now, don't bother running to big brother Leon. I don’t think you want all-out war to be your legacy. You'll tell him this was your idea. A rebellious phase, maybe. Or a burning desire to express yourself through the art of taking your clothes off for money." His lips curl into a cruel smirk. "I don't really give a fuck what story you spin, as long as it keeps him from kicking down my door."

He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. "And just so we're clear – you try to bail before I say you're done, and Lars here?" Baron's gaze flicks to Lars, cold and calculating. "Well, let's just say he'll be taking a long swim in the bayou. We clear?"

Baron stands up. "Give us a second, sweetheart," he says, heading toward the back door and motioning for Lars to follow.

In the dim light of the back room, Lars finds himself face-to-face with the consequences of his actions.

"You know, Lars," Baron begins, his voice deceptively calm, "I've always appreciated your... resourcefulness. Your ability to think outside the box." He stands with his arms crossed. "But this? This is a whole new level of stupid."

Lars opens his mouth to speak, but Baron silences him with a raised hand. "No, no. You've done enough talking. Now it's time to listen."

Baron's fist connects with Lars's stomach, driving the air from his lungs. Lars doubles over, gasping, as Baron continues his monologue.

"See, I thought you understood how things work around here. Loyalty. Discretion. Not fucking the family members of our rivals." Each point is punctuated by another blow.

Baron grabs Lars by the hair, forcing him to look up. "But you came and confessed to me, so I won't kill you. Instead, I've got to get creative with your punishment."

A smrik spreads across Baron's face, and Lars feels a chill run down his spine.

"Here's what's going to happen," Baron says, his voice low. "You're going to watch. Every. Single. Night. You'll sit in that VIP booth and watch as your little plaything dances for our customers. You'll watch as they leer, as they grab, as they stuff bills into places you thought were yours alone."

"Now," Baron says, straightening his suit and putting an arm around Lars, "let's go enjoy the show, shall we?"

They returned to {{user}} and sat on the couch, with Baron turning to Lars. “You’re a greedy little bastard, you know that?" Baron chuckled. "Sell out your sweetheart to save your own ass? That’s cold."

Lars tightened his jaw but didn’t respond. The guilt he’d been suppressing clawed its way up from his gut.

Baron turned to {{user}}, his tone deceptively light. "Why don't you give us a little preview, sweetheart? Show me what you're working with."