Chapter 4

Vivian’s P.O.V

The pavement was icy against my knees, the cold seeping through the thin scrap of gold fabric and biting deep into my skin.

I stayed on the ground, my body wracked with violent, uncontrollable tremors. The dirt, oil, and sharp gravel of the parking lot dug mercilessly into my bare legs, but I didn't care. Pain was nothing new. What terrified me was the silent, towering man standing above me.

I knew what a man like Dorian Blackwood saw when he looked down at me. To him, I was nothing but dirt under his custom leather shoes, a disposable piece of trash he’d happened to pull off a strip club floor.

I could see it in the cold, unreadable slate of his eyes. He probably thought I was filthy. He probably thought I was a whore who spent her nights willingly selling her body for cheap thrills and easy cash.

The thought made a fresh wave of thick, hot humiliation flood my chest, burning worse than the cut on my hand.

He didn't know about the double shifts, the unpaid electric bills, or the eviction notices tucked under my mattress. He just saw the torn gold bikini, the smeared makeup, and the absurd bunny ears on top of my matted out, unwashed hair.

Yet, despite the shame crushing my throat, I knew this was the only chance I was ever going to get. If I let him walk away now, if I let that sleek black sedan disappear into the New York night, I was as good as dead.

"Please," I sobbed, clutching at the hem of his pristine trousers with my uninjured left hand, completely unbothered by how utterly pathetic I sounded. "Please, I'm begging you. If you don't need a maid, I'll... I'll be your bed warmer. I'll do whatever you want. Anything. Just…please take me away from here."

The words tasted like ash in my mouth, dirty and vile, but desperation had long since killed whatever fragile pride I had left. I was offering the only currency a girl in my position was expected to have, praying it would be enough to buy my survival.

"You need to understand," I stammered, looking up into his impenetrable face through a blur of scalding tears. "I didn't just break glasses tonight. I refused a client. I caused absolute chaos in the VIP room. Marcus is going to throw me out before the sun comes up, and he won't just fire me—he'll make sure I don't get a single dime of my back pay. I won't have a cent to my name. I'll be thrown out on the street by tomorrow night, and out there... out there, there won't be anyone to step in. There won't be anyone to save me."

My breath came in short, ragged gasps as the silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. The cold wind whipped down the alley, biting at my exposed legs, but the coldness radiating off the man in front of me was far worse.

"Hey! That's enough out of you," a sharp, stern voice suddenly cut through the dark.

I flinched, shrinking back instinctively and pulling my chin down into the collar of Dorian's heavy wool coat.

It was the driver. He had stepped out from behind the open door of the sedan, his face twisted into a scowl of deep, unadulterated disdain as he glared down at me.

"Keep quiet, girl," the driver snapped, his tone laced with heavy disgust. "Mr. Blackwood doesn't go around picking up strays off the asphalt. You got your money for your hand. Now let go of his pants."

The word stray hit me like a whip across the face. My chest heaved, a fresh tear spilling over my lashes.

"God only knows what a woman like her is planning," the driver continued, shaking his head dismissively as he glanced at Dorian. "She’s a club girl, sir. Look at how she's dressed. You bring someone like this into your vehicle, and next thing you know, she’s setting up a shakedown, stealing your watch, or running straight to the tabloids with some exaggerated sob story to squeeze you for cash."

Every single word sliced straight into my chest, raw and lethal. The driver wasn't just rejecting me; he was voicing every terrible, ugly assumption the world had made about me since the day I hit rock bottom.

To him, I wasn't a victim of a horrible night—I was a thief, a liar, a low-class leech looking for an easy payday.

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him that I hated this club, that I hated this outfit, that I had fought with every ounce of strength I had left just to keep my clothes on tonight. But the words died in my throat. How could I defend myself when I was kneeling in the dirt, begging a rich stranger for mercy?

I pulled my hand back from Dorian's pants, clutching the wool coat tighter around my trembling frame, feeling smaller than a speck of dust.

"That's enough, Thomas."

The driver froze mid-breath.

Dorian hadn't raised his voice, but the sudden, icy shift in his tone made the temperature in the alleyway seem to drop instantly. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto the older man with lethal precision.

"She is clearly in distress," Dorian said, his voice flat, even, and dangerously calm. "There is no need to be rude."

Thomas’s jaw dropped slightly. He looked at Dorian, then down at me, completely stunned. I could see the sheer, unbridled disbelief written across the driver's features. It was glaringly obvious that Dorian Blackwood was not a man who routinely showed mercy to strangers, let alone defended a half-naked, bleeding waitress begging on her knees in a dirty alleyway.

The fact that he was reprimanding his own employee for speaking down to me sent a strange, disorienting shockwave through my chest.

Dorian turned his attention back down to me. He didn't look angry, nor did he look soft or sympathetic. His expression remained a smooth, impenetrable wall of dark marble, but something moved across his features…something almost calculating.

"Are you really willing to do anything?" he asked.

The question wasn't laced with cruel lust or predatory satisfaction. He didn't look at my exposed legs or the torn fabric under his coat with hunger. He sounded like a cold, calculating businessman reviewing the terrifying terms of an unbreakable contract.

I swallowed hard, the knot in my throat feeling like shattered glass. I nodded frantically, because at this point, this dangerous man might be my only way to salvation…even though I my heart hammered at all the horrible possibilities that could lie ahead.

"Yes," I choked out, my voice raw and hoarse. "Anything. I'll do absolutely anything you ask, as long as I can escape this hell hole."

Dorian stared down at me for three long, agony-filled seconds, taking in my trembling frame, the blood on his tie, and the sheer terror in my eyes. Then, he shifted his weight, turning back toward the open door of the sleek black sedan.

"Get in," he said simply.

The world seemed to stop spinning.

I froze, stunned into absolute silence, my breath catching in my chest.

Beside the car, Thomas looked like he had just watched his boss step off the edge of a cliff.

"Sir?" Thomas blurted out, stepping forward, his professional composure entirely cracking. "Are you... are you really doing this? We don't know the first thing about who she is!"

Dorian didn't answer him. He didn't even bother to look back at his driver. He kept his dark, impenetrable gaze fixed entirely on me as he reached out and took hold of the inner frame of the car door.

"I’m giving you an out, woman," Dorian said, his deep voice cutting through the cold night air and the distant hum of city traffic. "So now it’s entirely up to you. You can get in this car, or you can stay here and rot."

The choice wasn't a choice at all. It was life or death.

Before the final word had even fully left his lips, I scrambled to my feet. My wobbly, exhausted legs nearly betrayed me again, and the absurdly high, thin heels I was wearing caught on a lip of uneven asphalt.

I stumbled hard, gasping as I almost pitched forward onto my face, but I forced my balance back through sheer, unadulterated panic, completely ignoring the sharp spike of pain that shot up my injured arm.

I didn't care about my dignity. I didn't care that I looked like a frantic, hysterical fool. I lunged forward and practically threw myself into the backseat of the luxury vehicle, sliding across the soft, cool leather interior until I was huddled as far as I could get into the opposite corner.

Dorian stepped smoothly into the car after me, his long legs settling into the spacious cabin with effortless, quiet grace.

Outside, Thomas stood motionless on the pavement for a long beat, his face pale with utter shock and frustration.

But decades of strict discipline quickly took over. With a tight, reluctant press of his lips, he stepped forward, grabbed the heavy door handle, and slammed the rear door shut.

CLICK.

The sound echoed through the quiet interior—a heavy, soundproofed seal that cut off the cold alleyway, the flashing neon lights of the club, and the dark world I was leaving behind.

Thomas walked around to the front seat, climbing in behind the steering wheel. His sharp, highly skeptical eyes immediately flicked up to the rearview mirror, locking onto mine through the glass with lingering mistrust.

Then he started the engine, and the heavy luxury sedan glided smoothly away from the curb, carrying me away into the unknown dark.