Chapter 2

Dorian’s P.O.V

The second I stepped past the heavy velvet drapes of The Velvet Lounge, a visceral wave of disgust settled in the back of my throat.

It wasn't just the suffocating heat of the place, or the sickly sweet cocktail of expensive perfume, stale sweat, and cheap synthetic fog hanging thick in the air. It was the place itself and everything it represented.

I knew the kind of scum who frequented this establishment. I knew the exact caliber of men who hid behind VIP memberships to indulge their worst vices away from the eyes of their wives and shareholders.

And to think that I had been dragged out here tonight by one of my late father’s oldest business associates made my jaw tighten so hard my teeth ached.

My father had built Blackwood Enterprises on a foundation of ruthless discipline and unyielding standards. But in his final years, as his health deteriorated, he had allowed parasites to attach themselves to the empire.

Ronald Sterling was one of those parasites.

For months, Sterling had been begging for a renewal of our multi-million-dollar logistics contract. He had practically cornered me into this meeting, promising a quiet, high-level atmosphere to iron out the final clauses before signing.

Instead, he had chosen a high-end strip club.

I had already made up my mind by the time the club’s floor manager escorted me down the dim, neon-lit hallway toward the Gold Room. I wasn't going to renew. I had zero interest in entertaining a man who thought business was best conducted surrounded by cheap liquor and bought company.

I had no illusions about what went down behind the closed doors of these elite VIP suites, but I had planned to step inside, deliver a sharp, cold refusal to Sterling's face, and be back in my car within five minutes.

Nothing could have prepared me for what hit my ears the moment I came to a standstill outside the heavy double doors.

Above the thumping, low-frequency bass vibrating through the floorboards, a sound cut through the noise—sharp, desperate, and unmistakable.

A woman’s cry for help.

My instincts flared instantly. The air in my lungs turned to ice, and before my mind even processed the tactical choice, my body moved.

I raised my leg and slammed my foot into the center of the double doors.

BOOM.

The heavy wood burst open with a resounding crack, the frame shuddering as the doors slammed violently against the interior walls.

The room instantly went dead quiet. The music from the hallway seemed to vanish into the vacuum of the sudden silence, and every head in the suite snapped toward me, frozen in place.

The sight inside made my blood run cold.

Near the center of the room, surrounded by shattered glass, ice, and spilled liquor, Ronald Sterling was on the floor. He was pinning a woman to the hardwood, his face flushed red with alcohol and a disgusting, triumphant sneer plastered across his lips.

Beneath him, the woman was sobbing, her body wracked with violent tremors as she desperately tried to push his massive frame off her.

Her uniform—a ridiculous, flimsy gold bikini topped with rabbit ears, was torn. A shoulder strap had been ripped completely off, leaving her exposed, defenseless, and utterly terrified as Sterling hovered over her, preparing to force himself onto her right in front of a dozen cheering onlookers.

A dark, blinding rage exploded behind my eyes.

"Get off her," I rumbled.

My voice wasn't loud, but it carried the lethal edge of a blade.

Sterling didn't move fast enough. He blinked up at me with heavy, drunken eyes, his hand still reaching for her waist.

I didn't give him another second.

I crossed the room in three quick, aggressive strides, grabbed Sterling by the back of his tailored suit collar, and hauled him off her with raw, violent force. The man weighed at least two hundred pounds, but adrenaline and fury made him feel like nothing.

I hurled him backward, throwing him across the slick floor like a sack of trash. He crashed hard into a side table, sending crystal decanters flying before he slumped onto the carpet with a pathetic grunt.

The rest of the men in the room shrank back into their leather booths, suddenly very sober, very silent, and terrified to make eye contact with me.

I ignored them all and dropped to one knee beside the woman on the floor.

She flinched violently as I approached, curling into a tight ball, her arms wrapped frantically around her chest to shield herself. She was shaking so hard I could hear her teeth chattering.

"Hey," I said, dropping my voice into the calmest tone I could muster. "It's over. You're safe."

I unbuttoned my suit coat, slipped my arms out of the sleeves, and draped the heavy, dark wool over her shivering shoulders. The coat swallowed her small frame completely, covering her from her neck down to her thighs.

As I helped adjust the lapels around her neck, my fingers brushed against her right hand. She winced, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

That was when I noticed the blood.

A deep, jagged gash ran across the centre of her palm, thick red crimson pooling in her skin and dripping onto my coat. She must have fallen onto the broken glass during the struggle.

My hands, usually cold and unyielding, became instinctively gentle. I wrapped the edge of my sleeve lightly around her hand to apply pressure, careful not to press too hard against the open wound.

"Keep your hand elevated," I murmured.

She slowly looked up at me through a haze of tears, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches.

The moment her face was fully exposed to the gold lighting of the room, my chest tightened.

Her eyes—wide, terrified, and brimming with unshed tears—locked onto mine.

A sudden, sharp sensation of déjà vu hit me right in the center of my chest.

I stared at her. There was something about the curve of her jawline, the specific shade of green in her eyes, and the quiet, stubborn resilience hiding beneath her panic that felt hauntingly familiar. It was like looking at a photograph I had seen years ago, a distant memory floating just out of reach in the back of my mind.

Have I met her before? Where?

I searched my memory frantically—boardrooms, galas, charity events, public archives—but the connection slipped through my fingers like sand. I couldn't grab it. But the feeling remained, heavy and persistent.

Before I could dwell on it any longer, a loud, stumbling shuffle broke the silence behind me.

Sterling had managed to pull himself up from the ruined table. He was clutching his bruised elbow, his face pale and slick with sweat, but as his eyes registered who I was, a nervous, desperate smile broke out across his bloated face.

He came rushing over, hovering a few feet away with his hands raised pleadingly.

"Dorian! My God, Dorian!" Sterling stammered, his voice laced with forced camaraderie. "I—I apologize for the scene! You know how these nights get. This... this little bitch ruined the mood! She dropped a whole tray of expensive scotch and then threw a fit when I tried to correct her attitude."

He tried to let out a jovial laugh, but it died in his throat when I slowly stood up and turned to face him.

"Don't worry about it, though!" Sterling hurried to add, his eyes darting anxiously to my face. "We can have management drag her out of here right now. The evening is still young. I hope the deal is still on? We have the contract ready on the back table, we can proceed to the signing whenever you're ready—"

"The deal is over," I interrupted.

The flat, icy finality in my voice cut through the room like a executioner's axe.

Sterling froze, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. "What? Canceled? Dorian, come on, you can't be serious! This is a multi-million dollar collaboration! We've been negotiating the renewal for six months!"

He took an eager step forward, his hands gesturing wildly. "Look, if I upset you, I'm sorry! They had a little too much to drink, I had a little too much to drink—it was a mistake! You can't destroy a partnership over a miscommunication with a waitress!"

"Miscommunication?" I stepped into his space, looming over him until the man had to tilt his head back to look at me.

The aura of absolute authority I usually kept suppressed flared to the surface, crushing the air out of his lungs.

"Tonight wasn't a miscommunication, Ronald. Tonight was simply the final straw," I said, my voice dropping into a low, lethal hiss.

Sterling's eyes widened. "Dorian, please—"

"Did you really think I walked into this establishment without doing my due diligence?" I narrowed my eyes, watching the color drain from his face in real-time. "Did you think I wouldn't notice the discrepancies in your quarterly audits? I know about the embezzlement."

Sterling gasped, taking a hasty, unsteady step backward. "That's—that's false! Those are baseless rumors—"

"I know how you move assets through shell companies," I continued, relentless, driving every word into him like a nail. "I know you've been skimming off the top of your employee pension funds to cover your gambling debts. And I know the subhuman, sickening way you treat the people who work under you."

The man went from pale to a ghostly, sickly white. His lips trembled, but no sound came out. Behind him, his fellow investors sat in dead, horrified silence, realizing that their host's empire was crumbling right in front of them.

"My father may have turned a blind eye to your incompetence out of misplaced loyalty," I spat, my lip curling in disgust, "but I do not. Our contract ends tonight. There will be no renewal. My legal team will have the formal termination papers on your desk by eight o'clock tomorrow morning."

I took one final step toward him, bending down so my words were meant for his ears alone. "And by nine o'clock, the SEC will receive a very detailed, very comprehensive file regarding your 'creative accounting.' Enjoy your night, Ronald."

Sterling collapsed backward into a chair, looking utterly broken, his life's work destroyed in less than two minutes.

I didn't give him another glance.

I turned back to the woman on the floor. She was still huddled in my suit coat, her wide, tear-filled eyes staring up at me in absolute shock.

The beast inside me, the one that wanted to tear this club apart board by board, quieted down as I reached my hands out to her.

"Come on," I said softly. "Let's get you out of here."