In the upstairs office of Beast House, Vincent’s cowboy hat was pulled low, casting a deep shadow over his face. His hooked nose jutted out ominously, like a predator ready to strike.
Michael, the club’s PR manager, felt an unshakable unease and quickly covered it with words. "Beast House has only been open for less than a month. It takes time to build a customer base, reputation, and good reviews."
He had experience promoting male-centric bars, but this was his first dealing with a female-oriented one. He couldn’t shoulder the blame. "You're being impatient. Running a business is a process."
Vincent’s voice was calm. "25 days ago, when you took your commission, you didn’t say that."
At the mention of the $10,000 commission, Michael straightened up. "Give me another month. It’s not that I haven’t been trying—there’s an issue with the environment."
There was no way he could return the money; he didn’t have that much on hand anymore. "You know how it is—those damned regulations in Georgia. We can’t run ads directly in the media or malls, so we’ve been forced into underground promotion. Now the conservative Methodist Association is stirring up trouble, and the media is fanning the flames."
Vincent didn’t even blink. "And where are the celebrities you promised would come to the club?"
They couldn’t advertise openly, but celebrity sightings at the club could make headlines.
"I’m still working on that," Michael said.
Vincent raised his head slightly, the sharpness of his nose more pronounced. "A Georgia actress. If you can’t get Julia Roberts, Holly Hunter will do."
Michael was dumbfounded. These were two Oscar-winning actresses!
Vincent spoke slowly, "Do you know why I gave you $10,000?"
Michael forced himself to respond, "Because I’m worth it."
Vincent held up one finger. "First, I thought money might motivate you." He held up another finger. "Second, I’m confident I’ll get my investment back."
Michael leaned forward, his voice tinged with desperation. "Just give me a little more time."
Vincent picked up the phone and dialed the bar. "Bruce, clear the place in fifteen minutes. No one’s going home. We’re having a staff meeting."
Panic welled up in Michael, sweat beading on his forehead. "W-what are you going to do?"
"Beast House is a law-abiding establishment. We don’t do anything illegal," Vincent replied as he walked out. "I’m just gathering the staff to hear their thoughts."
Relieved that he wasn’t about to be taken out, Michael retorted, "You’d rather trust a bunch of idiots who can’t even read a newspaper than give a professional a little more time?"
Vincent walked straight out the door.
He wanted to trust professionals, but so far, they hadn’t brought in any customers.
Michael hurried after him.
Fifteen minutes later, all the staff of Beast House, including the dancers, were gathered near the stage.
Martin and Bruce stood to the far left, waiting for the boss to speak.
Vincent stepped onto the circular stage, his gaze sweeping over everyone. "You’re all aware of the club’s foot traffic. Any ideas?"
Hart, the captain of the dancers, was the first to speak. "Boss, should we go back to our old routine?"
Vincent said, "Bruce, if Hart says something that stupid again, throw him into the Atlantic in the most civilized way possible."
Hart glanced at Bruce, his lips trembling. "I’ll shut up."
Michael, however, caught sight of Martin and began to calculate his next move.
Vincent asked, "Anyone else?"
No one spoke.
Martin had some ideas, but the boss hadn’t mentioned any rewards.
No one was going to go out of their way for nothing. After all, workers are here to work, not to give free advice.
"Good, you really are my people—no reward, no effort," Vincent said, tipping his cowboy hat slightly. "Whoever can double Beast House’s foot traffic will have their salary doubled and receive a $10,000 bonus."
At the mention of $10,000, Michael couldn’t hold back any longer. "I’ve got an idea!"
Everyone turned to look at him, but Michael pointed at Martin. "As long as he cooperates, I can fix this."
Martin was baffled.
Michael, fearing someone might snatch the reward from him, rushed to explain. "Why can’t we attract large crowds? Because we lack a star performer!"
He pointed at Martin. "With his looks, combined with professional choreography and training, I can turn him into Atlanta’s next big star!"
Martin’s thoughts raced. What kind of grudge does this guy have against me, trying to get me killed like this? He quickly interrupted, "Boss, he’s exaggerating. Sure, I look good, but not to the extent he’s claiming. Besides, Hart and the others aren’t bad either."
Vincent’s trust in Michael had already collapsed. His gaze shifted. "Ivan, throw him out."
Ivan and his golden-haired lackey grabbed Michael and began dragging him out. Michael wanted to shout, but something hard pressed into his waist, silencing him instantly.
Vincent turned back to the group. "Anyone else?"
Everyone, including Bruce, shot a quick glance at Hart before immediately looking away.
Hart’s little brother was beaten black and blue every day. None of them wanted to end up like that.
Now that the reward was clear, Martin suddenly became the model employee. "Boss, I have an idea."
Vincent glanced at his other silent subordinates and then turned upstairs. "Come with me."
Just as Martin was about to follow, Bruce suddenly said, "I’ve heard that Dr. Bill, the veterinarian, knows how to treat cattle and sheep. You might want to consult him first."
"Don’t mention the vet!" Martin shot Bruce the middle finger as he followed Vincent upstairs.
Bruce waited a long time without hearing any news.
Hart clapped his hands and shouted to the other dancers, "Guys, clear out a locker in the dressing room. We’re getting a new colleague."
Bruce picked up a barstool.
Hart quickly turned around. "Bruce, you said you’d be civilized."
…
The upstairs office fell into silence once more, Vincent’s face still hidden beneath the shadow of his cowboy hat.
Martin’s earlier words had gone beyond anything Vincent—or even his father and brothers—had ever conceived. It wasn’t anything they were familiar with.
Vincent asked, "Where did you learn all this?"
"I’m an actor. I’ve been on sets since I was sixteen, studying media manipulation and dreaming of fame." With Martin’s acting skills, he spun his tale effortlessly. "I’ve seen countless successful film cases and know the media’s style well."
"How confident are you?" Vincent asked.
"Sixty percent," Martin replied after a moment’s thought.
"What do you need?" Vincent asked.
"Bruce and a few trusted people to help. The labor costs and any expenses incurred…" Martin began.
"The club will cover it," Vincent interrupted, generous when it came to motivation. "If you succeed, your debts are cleared, your salary is doubled, and you get a $5,000 bonus."
Martin didn’t ask about failure—Hart was already an example of that.
He had mentally prepared himself for the worst. After all, he was just a dancer.
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