Rebate King: Every Beauty I Spoil Makes Me a Billionaire

The interior of Neon Pulse was everything the exterior promised, dark, sleek, and pulsing with energy.

The main floor was a sprawling lounge bathed in shifting violet and indigo light, with a long bar running along one wall, private booths arranged in tiered alcoves, and a central dance floor that caught the overhead spotlights like a stage waiting for its performers.

The karaoke suites were upstairs, but the main floor was where the evening’s real atmosphere lived.

A live DJ was working the decks in a raised booth, cycling through a curated mix that moved between upbeat energy and slower, more intimate grooves.

The crowd was well-dressed and lively, couples, friend groups, a few solo drinkers scattered along the bar.

Stan and Sophie found a booth near the edge of the dance floor, close enough to feel the music, far enough to talk without shouting.

Sophie slid in first, and when Stan settled beside her, she immediately closed the gap, pressing her shoulder against his arm with the easy, unconscious intimacy of a woman who had stopped measuring appropriate distances.

Across the room, at a corner booth partially obscured by a decorative column, Damien sat surrounded by his black-suited entourage.

He had ordered a bottle of whiskey. Then another.

The rejection at the car had been surgical. ’Get lost, imposter.*/’ Two words, delivered without hesitation, without doubt, without even the courtesy of a momentary consideration.

Sophie hadn’t weighed his claim. She hadn’t glanced at his bodyguards or his watch or his fleet of cars parked outside. She’d simply looked through him like he was a pane of dirty glass and dismissed him.

And then she’d turned back to the kid in the leather jacket. The kid in the driver’s seat. The kid she’d already chosen.

Damien poured another shot and drank it in a single swallow.

He told himself he was fine. He told himself the rejection didn’t matter, that Sophie was one woman among many, that his Streak identity had other applications, that he’d miscalculated the approach and would recalibrate for next time.

But his eyes kept drifting back across the room.

Sophie was leaning into Stan, laughing at something he’d said, one hand resting on his forearm. The way she looked at him, the unguarded warmth, the softness in her eyes, the complete absence of the cold mask she’d worn for Damien, was a knife that twisted a little deeper every time Damien’s gaze returned to it.

He poured another shot. Drank it.

’She’s never looked at anyone like that,’ he thought. ’Not in any of her streams. Not in any of the campus photos. Not once.’

’And she’s looking at him like that.’

Another shot.

His guards exchanged worried glances but said nothing.

Despite him giving her quite the age gap, he was completely obsessed with Sophie, the major reason why he impersonated Stan in the first place was to bag Sophie.

The music shifted.

The DJ brought the energy down, a slow, deliberate transition from the upbeat pulse of the earlier sets into something warmer, deeper, more intimate.

A melodic, atmospheric track filled the room, the kind of sound that wrapped around the body like warm water and made the air itself feel softer.

Couples began drifting toward the dance floor in pairs, drawn by the change in tempo the way flowers turn toward light.

Sophie looked at Stan. Her eyes were bright, her lips curved into a smile that carried a question she already knew the answer to.

”Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a request. She was already sliding out of the booth, already reaching for his hand, already pulling him toward the floor with the gentle, irresistible gravity of a woman who had planned this moment since she’d chosen the venue.

Stan let himself be drawn forward, a small, quiet smile settling at the corner of his mouth.

’She brought me to a club with a dance floor on purpose,’ he sighed. ’Yhe karaoke suites were always the excuse. This was always the plan.’

The dance floor was dimly lit, just enough light to see by, not enough to feel exposed.

The other couples moved in slow, swaying orbits around them, lost in their own private worlds.

Sophie turned to face him. She reached up and placed both hands on his shoulders, her fingers curling lightly into the leather of his jacket.

Stan’s hands found her waist, settling there naturally, without hesitation, as if they’d done this a hundred times before.

They began to move.

It wasn’t choreographed. It wasn’t performative. It was the simplest kind of dance, a slow, rhythmic sway, weight shifting from foot to foot, bodies close enough that the warmth between them became its own presence.

Sophie’s heels brought her nearly to his height, and her eyes were level with his, close enough that each slow blink felt deliberate.

She moved closer. The gap between them narrowed to inches, then to nothing. Her breast pressed lightly against his chest. Her hands slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape with a tenderness that sent a quiet shiver down his spine.

Stan’s arms tightened fractionally around her waist, drawing her in.

They could feel their breath as they swayed together in a single, shared rhythm, unhurried, hypnotic, the kind of closeness that doesn’t need words because words would only get in the way.

Sophie tilted her head slightly. Her lips parted by a fraction. Her breath was warm against his jaw.

”Thank you,” she whispered.

”For what?”

”For everything. For the building. For the necklace. For last night’s stream. For being here. For being you.”

Her eyes searched his face in the low light, moving between his eyes with the focused intensity of someone trying to memorize something they’re afraid might disappear.

”I know you don’t say it,” she continued, her voice barely above a breath. ”I know you keep everything inside. I know you have your reasons. But I need you to know, even if you never say the words, I know how you feel. I can see it. In everything you do.”

Stan looked at her. The music moved through them like a tide.

’Does she think I love her?’ He simply smiled but didn’t say anything, his hand moving up from her waist, tracing along the curve of her jaw, slowly, and gently, the pad of his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

Sophie’s eyes fluttered half-closed.

They were barely moving now. Just standing in the center of the floor, bodies pressed together, foreheads nearly touching, breathing the same air. Her fingers tightened at the back of his neck. His hand cradled her face.

Their lips drifted closer. Centimeters. Millimeters. Close enough that each breath crossed the space and landed warm against the other’s mouth. Sophie’s lashes trembled. Stan’s thumb traced her lower lip. The tension between them was a physical thing, a wire drawn so tight it hummed.

Across the room, Damien watched.

He hadn’t stopped watching since they’d stepped onto the floor.