Chapter 6

Vivian’s P.O.V

The porcelain sink in the massive guest bathroom down the hall was carved from a solid block of white marble, its polished surface so pristine I was almost afraid to touch it.

I leaned heavily over the basin, turning on the gold-plated faucet, and cupped my uninjured left hand under the stream. The water was crisp and cold as I splashed it repeatedly against my face, trying to wash away the stinging heat in my cheeks and the lingering haze of pure exhaustion.

My head spun, a dizzying wave of lightheadedness washing over me so intensely that my knees buckled. I gripped the edge of the counter with one hand, forcing myself to stand upright.

‘Just hold on a little longer,’ I bargained with myself, closing my eyes tight. ‘Just until you get through the shower. Just until you scrub off his hands.’

I needed to wash away the phantom sensation of Ron’s calloused fingers digging into my skin. I needed to wash away the stench of spilled whiskey, cheap cigars, and the suffocating atmosphere of The Velvet Lounge before it completely consumed me.

After Dorian had laid down his terrifying ultimatum in the sitting room, he had summoned his head maid, a tall, sharp-featured woman in her fifties named Eleanor Hayes. Dorian had instructed Mrs. Hayes—as she firmly asked me to address her—to tend to my hand, help me get cleaned up, provide me with a proper meal, and escort me to my assigned quarters in the east wing.

I slowly opened my eyes and looked up into the grand, silver-framed mirror mounted above the sink.

A quiet gasp escaped my throat. For the first time all night, I truly saw what I looked like.

I looked horrifying. Black mascara was smeared in thick, ragged tracks down my pale cheeks, mixed with dried tears and dust from the alleyway floor. My red lipstick was smudged across my chin, and my dark red hair hung in a wild, matted tangle around my face.

The bunny ears were still perched on top of my head like some sick joke, and I couldn’t wait to throw it into the trash.

Beneath the bright, clear vanity lights, my frail form looked even more pathetic. Wrapped in Dorian’s oversized black wool coat, my thin shoulders were hunched, my collarbones sharp and protruding from months of missed meals.

I looked small, broken, and thoroughly degraded in the ruined, metallic scraps of the golden bikini underneath.

I had fully expected Mrs. Hayes and the rest of the domestic staff to look at me with the exact same disdain as Thomas, the driver. I had prepared myself for the cold shoulder, the quiet sneers behind my back, and the disgust reserved for a half-naked club girl brought home in the middle of the night by their employer.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Hayes had proven me wrong.

When she had taken me into the medical room off the kitchen to dress my hand, her hands hadn't been harsh or rough. She had sternly told me to hold still, yes, but as she picked out the tiny splinters of glass and applied a clean, thick waterproof bandage over the stitched palm, her eyes had softened.

She had brought me a glass of warm water, her expression shifting from rigid professional distance to something almost maternal. She didn't ask questions. She didn't pry. But as she gently wiped the blood off my wrist, I could tell beneath her strict, sharp demeanor lay a deeply compassionate heart.

“Get yourself washed up, child,” she had said softly, handing me a plush white bathrobe and a set of clean clothes. “I’ll have a hot plate waiting for you in your room when you’re done.”

Standing alone in the warm, steam-filled bathroom, I finally unbuttoned Dorian's suit coat, letting it slip off my shoulders and fall onto a chair near the door. With trembling fingers, I peeled away the ruined metallic fabric of the golden bikini, tossing the humiliating outfit straight into the trash bin where it belonged.

I turned on the shower, stepping into the massive glass enclosure. The moment the hot water hit my skin, a shuddering breath tore through my chest. The heat cascaded over my head, washing away the smeared makeup, the grimy dust, and the lingering phantom touches of the VIP room.

I grabbed a bar of scented soap and scrubbed my skin until it turned raw and red, meticulous in my effort to feel clean again. I was careful to keep my right hand elevated, resting it outside the stream to keep Mrs. Hayes’s fresh bandage completely dry.

When I finally turned off the water, I felt lighter, as if I had shed a layer of heavy, suffocating filth.

Stepping out onto the heated marble floor, I grabbed a giant, fluffy white bath towel off the brass rack and began wrapping it securely around my chest, tucking the corner tightly above my heart.

CLICK.

The sharp sound of the brass bathroom door handle turning made my blood freeze in my veins.

A flash of white-hot terror instantly seized my brain. My breath caught in my throat, my heart violently hammering against my ribs as my mind catapulted back to The Velvet Lounge.

At the club, drunken customers frequently followed waitresses into the back halls, slipping past security to corner us in the restrooms. For a terrifying, disorienting second, I completely forgot where I was. I thought Ron had followed me. I thought Marcus had come to drag me back.

I whipped around, clutching the thick towel tightly against my chest with both hands, my body locking into a defensive stance.

"Get away from—" The words died on my tongue.

Standing in the doorway was not a towering, drunk executive.

It was a little girl.

She couldn't have been more than four or five years old. She wore a light blue nightgown patterned with tiny white stars, her bare feet peeking out from beneath the hem. Beautiful, silky golden curls cascaded around her shoulders in a soft halo, framing a small, delicate face with massive, wide blue eyes that were staring at me with quiet, unblinking curiosity.

I let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, my shoulders sagging as the intense adrenaline drained out of me. Warm embarrassment flooded my neck.

"Oh..." I whispered, forcing my racing heart to slow down.

I quickly smoothed down the front of my towel and slowly lowered myself to one knee, bringing myself down to her eye level on the marble floor so I wouldn't loom over her.

"Hello there," I said, keeping my voice soft, gentle, and non-threatening. "Are you lost, little one?"

The girl didn't answer right away. She didn't flinch or run back into the hallway either. Instead, she took three tiny, hesitant steps into the bathroom, her wide eyes wandering from my face down to my bare shoulders.

Slowly, she reached out a tiny, soft hand. Her small fingers reached around my upper arm, gently brushing against the exposed skin of my shoulder blade.

"Why do you have so many marks on your back?" she asked, her voice small, innocent, and sweet as a bell.

A sudden, paralyzing shock ran straight down my spine. Panic, sharp and icy, flared in the pit of my stomach.

I rigidified instantly. I had completely forgotten that my back was entirely bare now, the concealer I had used previously having washed away in the shower.

Years of physical trauma, old burns, and deep, faded white scars from a past I tried every single day to forget were mapped across my spine and shoulders—ghosts of a life before I ended up on the streets.

I swallowed hard, forcing a tight, reassuring breath into my lungs as I gently reached up and covered her tiny hand with mine, pulling it softly away from my back.

"I... I fell down a long time ago," I managed to say, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to sound smooth. "I got hurt, but it was an accident."

The little girl tilted her head, her deep blue eyes searching my face with an uncanny intensity that felt far too old for her young age.

"Did it hurt very bad?" she asked softly.

A sad, quiet smile pulled at the corners of my lips. Looking into her innocent face, the tight knot of terror in my chest began to untangle, replaced by a strange, overwhelming wave of warmth.

"It hurt a little bit back then," I murmured softly, keeping her hand gently in mine. "But I'm okay now. See? I'm all better."

She stared at me for a beat longer before giving a slow, quiet nod of approval.

"My name is Vivian," I said, trying to steer the conversation away from the ghost marks on my skin. "What's your name?"

"Lilliana," she replied, her voice still tiny.

My heart did a soft flutter. Lilliana. Dorian's daughter.

The girl I had just pledged my life to protect under threat of death. Up close, I could see the resemblance—she had her father's striking, captivating eyes, though hers held none of his terrifying coldness.

"It's very nice to meet you, Lilliana," I said warmly. Then I glanced out the cracked bathroom door toward the dark hallway. "What are you doing out of bed? It's very late for a little girl to be wandering around."

Lilliana opened her mouth to answer, her small lips parting—

"Lilliana!"

A loud, frantic shout echoed down the long corridor outside, followed by the heavy, thundering sound of rapid footsteps slamming against the hardwood floors.

"Check the east wing!" another voice yelled from further down the hall.

Lilliana’s eyes went wide with sudden alarm. Without warning, she gasped and darted forward, throwing her tiny arms tightly around my neck and burying her face directly into the crook of my shoulder, holding onto my towel-clad body with all the strength her tiny frame possessed.

Instinct took over. I wrapped my arms securely around her small back, pulling her close to my chest to shield her.

BOOM.

The bathroom door burst completely open, slamming hard against the interior wall.

Dorian stood framed in the doorway. His suit coat was gone, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his dark hair slightly disheveled. Panic and dark, volatile fury burned violently in his eyes—a father terrified out of his mind that his child had gone missing in the dead of night.

He looked ready to tear the mansion apart room by room. But the absolute rage in his posture froze the exact second his eyes landed on the two of us huddled together on the bathroom floor.