Huggies Clubhouse appeared to be just another slick, high-end club designed for the elite of Texas. It had glass walls tinted just enough to deter curiosity, a velvet rope guarded by men who appeared to be able to break bones with their pinkies, and a golden sign that glistened with silent strength: HUGGIES.
However, once you entered, you realised this was more than just a club.
It was a kingdom.
A kingdom in which business and pleasure coexisted, loyalty was gained via blood and sweat, and Bahd Huggies ruled like a silent deity from his glass office upstairs, watching everything with a cold, calculating eye. The Huggies Clubhouse served as more than just a place to hang out. It was an empire disguised by the sweet smell of sin and neon lights.
---
Deep red and smoky violet hues filled the dimly lit interior. A large circular stage with a chrome edge and half-moon booths covered in black leather occupied the centre of the space. A slow-moving chandelier that resembled a revolving crown rotated above it, with each strand of crystal catching the coloured lights and dispersing them like stars.
Here, the music was always bassy enough to evoke the soul but low enough to be heard in whispers. Trap beats blended with jazz, and a live band occasionally performed Afrobeats covers that added a sensual beat to the whole venue.
The Velvet Lounge, a VIP-only area with glass walls and a fortress-like security system, was located to the left of the stage. It was a hangout for high rollers, politicians, foreign investors, and clients with cartel connections. Under the cover of aged whisky and cigar smoke, deals were made. Not only about money, but also about loyalty, power, retaliation, and keeping quiet.
The Dungeon was the name of the right wing, a private area reserved for the brave and well-off. Everyone had heard the rumours, but no one discussed what actually happened inside. BDSM spaces. Covert poker competitions. negotiations that resulted in bloody signatures. The rule was straightforward: Dungeon events never leave the walls.
---
That night, Justin stood close to the entrance, wearing all black, his earpiece humming, his keen eyes searching. He was more than just a worker. He came to watch.
To search.
To verify the veracity of his alleged father, Bahd Huggies, as they called him.
And perhaps, just perhaps, to know why his mother had kept him hidden from the world all her life.
A voice crackled in his earpiece, "Yo, rookie." One of the senior guards, Tunde, was there. "Remain vigilant. Tonight, the Russians are here.
Justin tensed up a little and moved, looking straight at the private booths. Four men in pricey suits had indeed seated themselves in the corner. Mikhail Petrov, the alleged source of military-grade weapons for the illicit market, was one of them.
"Copy that," Justin muttered.
Here, each evening served as a lesson in darkness. The club offered more than just dancing and drinks. It dealt in secrets. Champagne was used to seal arms deals. Million-dollar contracts slid across tables as girls danced on poles. Politicians entered through the back door and exited with their enemies buried, sometimes literally, and their reputations intact.
Despite all the chaos, there was one spot in the club that was still considered sacred.
The stage.
And when Lila stepped onto it, time paused.
---
She moved as smoothly as silk. Firelight danced on her skin as her body twisted and turned in time with the beat. She did more than just dance. The dancer was her. the main attraction. On Thursdays and Fridays, the siren's presence ensured a full house.
Even though Justin had seen her once, briefly, on his first night, something was different tonight under the golden lights. Perhaps it was the pain she concealed behind her alluring smile, the quiet fire, or the expression in her eyes. Or perhaps he was simply burning because he hadn't felt anything in a long time
He stared for too long.
Tunde's voice buzzed once more, "Be careful." "That person has adversaries. and admirers.
Fans like Brandon Huggies.
---
This was the world Brandon had grown up in. The golden boy with white teeth, slicked-back hair, and a temper that could rival hellfire. He was the unofficial prince of the club. Although Justin had not yet met him, he had overheard the rumours. With the apparent exception of being real, Brandon was everything a Huggies heir ought to be.
Justin was now working in the heart of Brandon's kingdom.
He saw deals come and go like plays as the night wore on. An oil sheikh was offered server access by a tech tycoon in return for funding a cryptocurrency scam. Everyone knew that the ceasefire would not last, but two rival gang leaders toasted to it. In the corner booth, a teenage girl sobbed while holding hands with an older senator who sipped brandy and whispered lies.
And Bahd Huggies sat like a god upstairs, behind that soundproofed glass.
---
He rarely came downstairs. But everything stopped when he did. Each dancer slowed down. Each glass was replenished. Everyone's mouths shut.
He came down that night.
With two heavily armed guards on either side, Bahd Huggies came down the stairs wearing a charcoal suit and sunglasses, despite the fact that it was well past midnight. His quiet, strategic, and almost menacing presence was alluring.
He stopped at the railing of the balcony and looked down at the people.
And his gaze fell on Justin for a split second.
Their eyes locked.
And they exchanged something. A flicker. A spark. Recognition?
Justin quickly averted his gaze while feigning to adjust his earpiece. His chest roared with his heart. Was it merely a coincidence? Or was Bahd Huggies aware of it?
---
In a video interview that Justin had seen online, Bahd Huggies once stated, "Everyone wants to rule the world." However, few people are aware of the costs.
Now, being here… Justin was beginning to understand.
The Huggies Clubhouse was more than a structure. It was a machine with a polished exterior and gears that could cut anyone who didn't fit.
It had everything.
A Forge Room, where international clients frequently flew in via private airstrips to discuss arms purchases.
A Champagne Garden—candlelit rooftop area with a view of the city skyline—a place for bribes, seduction, and mistresses.
A Vault Room where cash flowed like water—protected by biometric scanners and three guards who would die before allowing anyone to enter without Bahd's consent.
And yet, among all this opulence, all this danger, all this history…
Justin felt like he belonged.
---
He changed after his shift and stayed behind to watch the employees tidy up. With a towel around her neck and sweat dripping off her collarbone, Lila walked past him in the hallway.
Her smile came out. "You look like a man who has never seen a woman dance before."
"I watch like a man who appreciates art," he replied smoothly.
She raised an eyebrow, amused. "You're new."
"Justin," he said.
"I know," she said. "Everyone knows the new bodyguard with the brooding eyes."
He laughed, surprised at her boldness. "And you are?"
"Lila."
"I know," he mirrored her words. "Everyone knows the girl who sets the stage on fire."
They remained silent for far too long. Then she took a step forward, looking at him with interest. "Be careful, Justin, in here. Men are eaten alive here.
Then, with her hips moving, she disappeared down the hallway, leaving his heart pounding.
---
He stood there, taking in what she had said, "Men are eaten alive here".
He thought she was real.
Justin, however, wasn't here to be devoured. His purpose was to reclaim what was rightfully his.