Chapter 645

The bar manager froze when Evelyn Sinclair made her unusual request.

A sophisticated young woman asking for that outdated disco track? But money talked, and she was clearly loaded.

He masked his shock with a practiced smile, eyeing her like she was a walking gold mine.

"Of course! Anything else you'd like?"

"Anything?" Evelyn arched a perfectly sculpted brow.

"Your satisfaction is our priority." The manager bowed slightly. Money made anything possible.

"Then turn it up. I can barely hear it." She gestured dismissively. "And this lighting is depressing. Fix it."

She tapped her chin, then added, "Oh, and I want Katelyn’s blueberry cheesecake. And Banley’s luwak coffee."

A pause. She smirked. "That’s all. Can you handle that?"

The manager gaped for a solid thirty seconds before remembering his customer service smile.

But one glance at the black card tossed carelessly on the counter—and the obscene amount she’d already spent—sealed his compliance.

"Absolutely! Consider it done."

Evelyn grinned. A bar this accommodating? She’d be back.

Within moments, the melancholic tune was replaced by the deafening beats of Stayin’ Alive.

The abrupt shift from funeral dirge to 70s disco whiplashed the entire crowd.

Isabella Montgomery arrived just in time to witness the chaos.

She gaped at the dance floor, where patrons awkwardly swayed to the retro anthem.

"Nikki—wait, Evelyn," she corrected, still adjusting to her friend’s new identity. "Is this a bar or a time warp?"

Evelyn, already halfway through her third bottle, turned with glassy eyes. "Took you long enough."

She gestured grandly to the untouched cake. "Service here is excellent. We’re making this our spot."

Isabella’s gaze dropped to the lineup of emptied premium liquor bottles.

Hard pass.

Before she could protest, a slurred shout cut through the music.

"I reserved this place! Who the hell changed my playlist?!"

The voice was familiar. And very, very drunk.

"Some rich bitch? You’ll piss me off but not her?" The man stumbled into view, his tie loose, face flushed. "I dare you to show me the psycho who wants to hear this garbage!"

His rant escalated. "My wife left me! Stayin’ Alive is the last thing I—"

Isabella yanked Evelyn’s sleeve. "That’s Tristan Whitmore."

Evelyn took a slow sip, then sauntered toward the commotion.

Tristan, mid-tirade, froze when he spotted her leaning against the railing. Moonlight sharpened her icy stare.

His blood ran cold.

"The ‘rich woman with weird tastes’ is you?"

He recoiled—only for someone behind him to shove him forward by accident.

A scream. A crash.

Tristan tumbled down the stairs in a spectacular sprawl of limbs.

Groaning, he clutched his head as Stayin’ Alive continued blaring.

The universe, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.