Chapter 3

Vivian’s P.O.V

My entire body felt like a frayed wire ready to snap.

When Dorian extended his large, warm hand toward me, I hesitated for a fraction of a second before reaching out with my uninjured left arm.

My fingers brushed against his, and the contrast was immediate—his hand was steady, strong, and completely unbothered by the chaos of the room, while mine shook so violently I could barely keep my grasp.

"Can you stand?" he asked, his deep voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.

"I—I think so," I stammered, swallowing the lump of fear in my throat.

I tried to push myself off the floor, digging the soles of my heels into the booze-slicked hardwood. But the moment I put weight on my knees, they gave out entirely. The room spun, the neon lights blurring into streaks of gold and red.

Before I could hit the ground again, two broad arms slid beneath me. One supported my back while the other scooped beneath my knees, lifting me off the cold floor in one fluid, effortless motion.

A soft gasp escaped my lips as I instinctively clutched at the lapels of his crisp white shirt. Dorian didn't wince. He didn't even shift his balance. He carried me as if I weighed nothing at all—and in truth, I probably didn't.

Years of surviving on gas station ramen, cheap canned soup, and double shifts had taken their toll. I couldn't even remember the last time I had eaten a proper, hot meal. My ribs were visible, my frame thin, and the exhaustion of simply existing had worn me down to the bone.

As he turned and began walking out of the Gold Room, I found myself staring up at his side profile. Up close, the sheer presence of this man was staggering. His jawline was sharp, shadowed with light stubble, and his dark eyes were fixed straight ahead with absolute focus.

The heat radiating from his chest was intoxicating. In the middle of the chilly, drafty VIP corridor, wrapped in his heavy wool coat, his body heat felt like a furnace.

And then there was his scent—a subtle, expensive blend of fresh citrus, cold air, and deep spice. It was a smell that made every instinct in my tired body scream to bury my face in the crook of his neck and let go of the world.

But fear kept me anchored.

I kept my hands tightly balled against my own chest, careful not to press too hard against his shirt. Men like him didn't touch women like me unless there was a price attached.

I had spent twenty-four years learning that no one gave anything away for free, especially not powerful billionaires in dark suits.

Dorian carried me out through the main floor of The Velvet Lounge, and the shift in the room was electric. The pounding bass of the music was still blasting, the flashing strobe lights washing over the crowd, but as Dorian passed the bar, people stopped.

Dancers paused on the stage. High-paying clients put their glasses down. Waitresses I had scrubbed floors with stared at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. The plain Jane, the quiet waitress who barely spoke a word, was being carried through the front doors like a broken glass doll by the most dangerous-looking man in Manhattan.

Dorian didn't give any of them a single glance. He pushed through the heavy front doors, stepping out into the cool, crisp New York night air.

He walked past the crowded valet line, ignoring the whispers of the bouncers, and carried me into a secluded, dimly lit corner of the parking lot behind a cluster of tall decorative hedges. Only when we were completely shielded from the public eye did he slowly, carefully lower my feet to the pavement.

My legs were still wobbly, but I leaned against the brick wall behind me for support.

I looked down at his coat, which was still wrapped around my shoulders, and then up at his impenetrable face. The adrenaline was finally beginning to fade, leaving behind a profound, aching sense of gratitude.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice breaking slightly. "You... you saved me. He would have... I don't even want to think about what he would have done."

Dorian simply stood there, his hands sliding into his trouser pockets, his dark gaze tracking every shift in my expression.

"How can I repay you?" I blurted out, the words tumbling past my lips before I could stop them. "I don't have much money, but... I can work it off. I can clean your office, I can wash your car, I—"

"Why are you working at a place like this?" he interrupted.

His tone wasn't mean, but it held a blunt, clinical curiosity that caught me off guard.

I lowered my eyes to the gravel beneath my heels. "Because I don't have a choice. I'm an orphan. I have no family, no savings, and nowhere else to go. The club provided me with immediate pay, and... it was the only place that would take me."

Dorian frowned slightly, his brows drawing together. "New York is full of businesses. Why not a fast-food joint? A retail store? A coffee shop? Why risk your safety in a strip club?"

A bitter, quiet laugh bubbled up in my chest, though the smile didn't reach my eyes.

"Do you think I didn't try?" I asked, looking up to meet his gaze. "I dropped out of high school when I was seventeen after my world fell apart. I spent months applying everywhere. Coffee shops, grocery stores, fast-food counters. But every manager looked at my blank resume, saw that I didn't even have a high school diploma, and threw my application in the trash. The Velvet Lounge was the only door that didn't slam in my face."

Dorian didn't speak immediately. He just stared down at me, his sharp eyes narrowing as if he were looking straight through my skull, reading every painful memory, every night I had gone to sleep hungry, and every humiliation I had endured just to keep a roof over my head.

It felt as though he were stripping away every defensive wall I had spent years constructing, leaving my soul completely exposed to him.

After a long moment, Dorian reached up and unknotted his silk tie.

Without asking, he took my injured right hand in his. His touch was firm, yet remarkably gentle. The cut across my palm was still oozing out blood, staining the skin around my wrist.

Carefully, Dorian began to wrap the smooth, dark silk of his tie around my hand. He wound it around my palm twice, tying a neat, snug knot to compress the wound and stop the bleeding.

"You need to go to an urgent care clinic," he said, his voice quiet as he finished the knot. "That cut is deep. It's going to need stitches, and you need to make sure there's no broken glass left inside the tissue."

Before I could process the sudden act of care, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit vest, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and held it out to me.

"For the clinic," he said simply.

I stared at the green paper in his fingers, my throat tightening. "Mr. Dorian, I... I can't take this."

"Take it." It was an order.

"You don't understand," I stammered, my eyes brimming with fresh tears as I looked from the money to his face. "This... this isn't just a clinic fee to someone like me. If I buy cheap bandages and clean the wound myself, this hundred dollars will buy me groceries for almost two weeks if I'm careful with how I spend it."

Dorian shrugged, his expression unreadable, though a faint flicker of something solemn crossed his features. "Then buy groceries. Just get your hand taken care of."

Before I could answer, a pair of bright headlights swept over the back parking lot. A sleek, black luxury sedan glided smoothly around the corner, pulling up to the curb a few feet away from us. A driver in a crisp uniform stepped out immediately, opening the rear door with quiet efficiency.

Dorian turned away from me, stepping toward the open door.

The realization hit me like a physical blow.

He was leaving.

He was going back to his pristine, powerful world of luxury, security, and endless meals. And I was going to be left standing in this alleyway, wearing a ruined bunny suit under his coat, with a bleeding hand and a single hundred-dollar bill.

Marcus would fire me the second he found out the VIP deal was canceled. My landlord would lock me out by Monday. The little safety net I had fought so hard to maintain was gone. The dark, terrifying reality of the street was rising up to swallow me whole.

A sudden, overwhelming surge of sheer panic seized my chest. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs, choking out the air from my lungs.

I didn't think. I couldn't reason. Instinct took complete control of my body.

My knees hit the cold, hard pavement with a dull thud.

I dropped directly to the ground right at his feet, clutching the hem of his trousers with my uninjured hand, sobbing openly as the tears cascaded down my face.

"Please!" I cried out, my voice ragged and desperate. "Please, don't leave me here! Take me with you!"

Dorian stopped in his tracks, his body going rigid.

"Please," I begged, looking up at him through a blur of tears, completely unconcerned with how pathetic I looked. "I'll do anything. I'll clean your house, I'll scrub your floors, I'll work eighteen-hour days and I won't ask for a penny! Just please... don't leave me in this place. If I stay here, there won't be anything left of me by tomorrow."

The driver stood by the open car door, frozen in absolute shock.

The silence between us stretched, suffocating and heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of city traffic and my own ragged, trembling sobs as I knelt on the pavement, placing my entire life into the hands of a complete stranger.