Leo nearly choked on his lukewarm instant coffee. He'd been meticulously going over the logistics of charming Liam – Operation "Lila's Lasso," as he'd dramatically dubbed it in his head – meticulously planning chance encounters at the gym, crafting witty lines that would somehow convey both allure and vulnerability, all without blowing his cover. Then, Alistair Thorne, the ice-encrusted titan of Maxwell's nightclub, had nonchalantly dropped a bomb that threatened to derail everything.

"Maxwell. A matter I wish to discuss with you."

Leo had been painstakingly threading rhinestones onto a particularly flamboyant corset, destined for Lila's next performance, when Alistair’s voice, clipped and precise as always, had echoed from the doorway of his tiny, cluttered apartment. The apartment itself was a testament to Leo's precarious financial situation: a cramped studio above a pizza parlor, where the smell of pepperoni perpetually lingered, clinging to everything like a persistent, unwelcome guest.