Chapter 5

Vivian’s P.O.V

The interior of the leather-bound sedan was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and the silence only amplified the frantic racing of my heart.

I pressed myself as far into the corner of the backseat as humanly possible, keeping my feet tucked together and pulling Dorian’s heavy wool coat tight around my body. My fingers, including the right ones wrapped tightly in his dark silk tie—clutched the lapels until my knuckles turned white.

Beside me, Dorian Blackwood sat in total stillness. He didn't look at me, didn't check his phone, and didn't offer a single word of reassurance. But suddenly, the silence was broken.

"Crank up the heat," he commanded the driver.

I blinked, glancing at him. He hadn't even turned his head, but the timing was too precise to be a coincidence.

Had he noticed? Had he seen the way I was trembling, the way I was huddled into a ball of misery? Was that why he had acted without asking me?

A few moments later, a wave of warm air began to flow from the vents, smelling faintly of expensive leather and a hint of something metallic. As the heat enveloped me, I felt a strange, sudden surge of relief.

It was a small thing—a simple adjustment of the temperature—but in a world where I was used to being ignored or exploited, the fact that he had noticed my discomfort felt like a shock to my system.

I shifted slightly, stealing a glance at him from the corner of my eye.

He simply stared straight ahead out the tinted window, his profile sharp and unforgiving against the passing blurs of Manhattan’s city lights. The sheer space he occupied, both physically and in presence, made the air inside the vehicle feel suffocatingly thin.

‘What did I just do?’ The question screamed in my head over and over.

I had thrown myself into a stranger's car. A powerful, terrifying stranger who had just ruined a multi-million-dollar deal without blinking an eye. I was a half-naked waitress in a torn gold costume, riding into the night with a billionaire, completely at his mercy.

‘What have I just gotten myself into?’

The city buildings slowly gave way to wider roads, towering wrought-iron gates, and thick groves of trees. After what felt like an eternity, the sedan smoothly turned up a long, winding cobblestone driveway illuminated by warm, low-standing garden lamps. The huge black iron gated slammed shut after the car, sealing me into whatever nightmare I had just walked into.

When the car finally rolled to a smooth halt, I looked out the window and held my breath.

Calling it a house was an insult. It was a sprawling, classical limestone estate that looked like a European palace dropped right onto the outskirts of New York.

Grand marble pillars flanked the massive entrance, glowing beneath soft amber lights that stretched long shadows across the spotless stone steps.

Thomas stepped out and opened the door with a bow. Dorian slid out gracefully, not waiting for me, and I scrambled out after him, nearly tripping over my own hem again, and followed three paces behind as he walked up the grand steps.

The front doors were opened from the inside by an older butler in a pristine suit, who bowed respectfully as Dorian stepped across the threshold. I hesitated at the doorway, my breath catching in my throat as I looked down at the entrance hall.

The floor was made of polished white marble so glossy it reflected the towering crystal chandelier hanging overhead like a frozen star. High-arched ceilings, oil paintings in gold leaf frames, and sweeping dual staircases surrounded us. It felt less like a home and more like a museum reserved for royalty.

"In here," Dorian commanded smoothly, stepping into a grand sitting room off the main hall.

I followed him like a shadow, my heart thumping violently against my ribs.

The sitting room was anchored by a massive marble fireplace where a soft fire crackled, illuminating deep crimson armchairs and a sleek, cream-colored leather sofa that probably cost more than my entire existence.

Dorian unbuttoned the top button of his collared shirt, untying his cuffs as he walked over to the sofa and sat down with effortless authority. He leaned back, resting his arms along the backrest, his dark eyes fixing onto me.

I stayed rooted near the doorway, hovering helplessly on the edge of the plush Persian rug.

"Sit down," he said softly.

I shrank back, clutching his wool coat tighter around my waist. My mind raced—I was covered in dirt from the parking lot, sticky spilled alcohol from the club floor, and my own dried blood.

"I... I shouldn't," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper as I looked down at the pristine cream leather. "I'm dirty. I'll ruin your furniture, Mr. Dorian. I can just stay standing—"

"I said, sit."

His voice didn't rise to a shout, but the low, sudden snap of absolute authority cut through the room like a crack of thunder.

My body reacted before my brain could stop it. My knees buckled, and I darted forward, sitting down instantly on the very edge of the sofa. I squeezed my legs tight together, hovering awkwardly so as little of my body touched the leather as possible.

Dorian watched my terrified movement, his face remaining a calm, impenetrable mask. He crossed one long leg over the other, resting his hands in his lap.

"What is your name?" he asked. His voice was a low rumble, echoing slightly in the vast room.

I swallowed hard, my throat feeling tight and dry. "Vivian," I whispered. My voice sounded small, fragile, and entirely out of place.

"Vivian…let's get down to why you are here," Dorian began, his deep voice carrying clearly over the soft crackle of the fire. "You offered to clean, to serve, or to be a bed warmer in exchange for shelter."

I flushed, my cheeks burning with deep shame, but I kept my eyes locked on his.

"I have a full staff of maids, cooks, and groundskeepers," he continued flatly, dismissing my desperate bargaining without a shred of emotion. "I don’t need another servant. And I certainly do not need a bed warmer."

A cold lump formed in my stomach. Was he going to send me back out to the gates?

"What I do need," Dorian said, narrowing his eyes slightly, "is a nanny."

I blinked, completely caught off guard. "A... a nanny?"

"A babysitter. Someone to watch over my daughter," he clarified, his tone clipped.

Panicked resistance flared instantly in my chest immediately. "Mr. Dorian, I—I can't do that! I have zero experience taking care of a child! I don't know the first thing about raising a kid. I can barely take care of myself!"

"You don't need a degree in child development," Dorian replied coolly. "You need patience, presence, and obedience. You will reside here. I will provide you with your own private room in the east wing, three square meals a day, and a salary of three thousand dollars per month."

My jaw went completely slack.

Three. Thousand. Dollars.

Per month.

Plus free food and a roof over my head.

My head spun. Back at the club, I was struggling to make eight hundred dollars a month while risking getting assaulted by drunken beasts. Three thousand dollars meant I could save money. It meant I wouldn't starve. It meant I would never have to step foot in a place like The Velvet Lounge ever again.

‘It's a trap,’ a cautious voice whispered in the back of my mind. ‘Or maybe... maybe taking care of a kid won't be that hard?’

How difficult could it be to watch a little girl, play with some toys, and make sure she ate her dinner? Staying in this gilded fortress was a thousand times better than being thrown out into the freezing streets of Queens to rot.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing my shoulders to steady.

I had no idea how I was going to do this, or if I was even going to survive…but going back out there was NOT an option.

"I..." I began, taking a shaky breath. "I will try my best, Mr. Dorian. I'll do whatever it takes to do a good job."

Dorian didn't smile. He didn't look relieved. Instead, his posture stiffened, and the atmosphere in the warm room instantly turned ice-cold.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, bringing his face into the amber light of the fireplace. The subtle warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated danger.

"Listen to me very carefully, Vivian," he said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated straight into my bones. "My daughter, Lilliana, is everything to me. She is the only thing in this miserable world that I care about."

I held my breath, paralyzed by the sheer malice in his tone.

"If you neglect her, if you displease her, or if you hurt even a single hair on her head..." Dorian paused, letting the silence stretch until my heart was hammering against my ribs so hard it hurt. "...throwing you back onto the streets will be a mercy. I will make sure you never breathe again."

The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp.

He wasn't exaggerating. He wasn't making a dramatic point.

I looked into his cold, dark eyes and knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that Dorian Blackwood was a man capable of ending a life without a second thought if his daughter was threatened.

"I—I would never!" I choked out, shrinking back against the sofa, tears of pure fear forming in my eyes as I shook my head frantically. "I promise you, Mr. Blackwood! I would never hurt a child! I swear to you, I'll protect her! I'll never hurt anyone!"

Dorian searched my terrified face for several long, excruciating seconds, calculating every tremble of my lip and every tear running down my face.

Finally, he leaned back into the sofa, the suffocating pressure in the room lifting just enough for me to draw in a ragged breath.

"Good," he said smoothly, as if he hadn't just threatened to end my life. "The staff will show you to your quarters and tend to your hand. Your duties begin tomorrow morning at six."