Chapter 7

Vivian’s P.O.V

My immediate, instinctual reaction was to shriek and scramble backward, clutching the towel tighter around my body to shield myself from his piercing gaze. But the panic died in my throat as reality caught up to me.

‘He’s already seen you on the floor of a club in a torn golden bikini,’’ I reminded myself, my chest heaving as I kept my arms steady around the little girl. ‘He’s seen you bleeding, exposed, and half-naked. There was no dignity left to protect from Dorian Blackwood.’

Dorian’s dark eyes swept over my bare shoulders and the towel clutched against my chest for a fraction of a second before he forcibly ripped his gaze away, fixing his entire focus on the little girl shivering in my arms.

The wild, lethal panic that had filled the doorway softened into something quiet and infinitely careful.

Slowly, Dorian dropped down to one knee, lowering his towering frame until he was at eye level with us. He held out a broad, open hand toward his daughter—a gentle, deliberate gesture, like a man trying not to frighten a fragile, skittish bird.

"Lilliana," he said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet rumble that carried none of the cold terror he usually projected. "It is far too late for you to be out of bed, sweetheart. Come here. Let's get you back to your room."

Lilliana tightened her tiny arms around my neck, burying her face deeper into the crook of my shoulder. "No," she whimpered softly, her small voice muffled against my skin. "I don't want to sleep. The shadows are loud tonight."

Dorian's expression tightened with a flash of solemn pain, but his posture remained rigid.

"Lily."

The single syllable wasn't shouted, but it was spoken in an almost stern, uncompromising tone that cut through the quiet bathroom.

Lilliana froze instantly.

Slowly, reluctantly, the little girl untangled her tiny fingers from my hair and unclasped her arms from my neck. She turned around on my lap, looking at her father with wide, obedient eyes.

Dorian didn't hesitate; he reached forward and scooped her up into his broad chest in one fluid, effortless motion. Lilliana rested her head against his shoulder, her golden curls spilling over his dark vest as she let out a soft, tired sigh.

Dorian stood up, holding his daughter securely against his side. He turned his dark, unreadable eyes back to me, taking in my shivering form on the marble floor.

"My apologies for the intrusion, Vivian," he said softly, his voice returning to its smooth, clipped professional mask. "Get dressed. The staff will see to your quarters."

Before I could form a response, he turned on his heel and stepped out into the corridor, pulling the heavy bathroom door shut behind him with a quiet, decisive click.

The moment the latch caught, the air rushed back into my lungs.

I let out a long, shuddering breath, my shoulders slumping as I sank completely onto the heated tile floor. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely press them against the ground to steady myself.

The sheer emotional roller coaster of the last four hours was catching up to me, threatening to pull me under into total exhaustion.

‘Get up,’ I told myself sternly. ‘You can't afford to collapse now.’

I forced my aching, trembling body off the floor and walked over to the neatly folded pile of clothes Mrs. Hayes had left on the vanity bench. I dropped the damp bath towel and slipped into the garments provided for me.

It was a simple, soft cream-colored dress adorned with subtle, delicate floral patterns along the hem and sleeves. The fabric was incredible—smooth, breathable, and impossibly soft against my scrubbed skin.

It fit my small frame comfortably, falling just past my knees. It was infinitely softer, better tailored, and far more expensive than the handful of worn-out thrift store clothes sitting in my tiny apartment back in Queens.

Not that those clothes mattered anymore. None of the pathetic scraps of my old life held a single shred of value to me now.

I smoothed down the front of the cream dress, took a deep breath to center my racing thoughts, and opened the bathroom door to step out into the grand hallway.

Mrs. Hayes was already standing there, resting her hands neatly over her dark apron as she waited for me. Her face returned to its disciplined, neutral mask, but her eyes held a quiet, watchful attention as she looked me over.

"You look much better, child," Mrs. Hayes said, her tone crisp yet surprisingly gentle. She gestured down the carpeted corridor toward the far end of the wing. "Follow me. Your quarters are ready."

I walked beside her in silence, the thick Persian runners muffling our footsteps against the dark hardwood floors.

"A warm meal has been delivered to your room," Mrs. Hayes informed me as we walked. "It’s something light but filling—a bowl of hot chicken porridge. Eat as much as you can manage. Once you are finished, you may simply set the tray on the table outside your door. The night staff will clear it away."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hayes," I whispered, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "I really appreciate it."

Mrs. Hayes brought us to a halt in front of a grand set of dark wood double doors tucked away at the quiet end of the east wing. She turned to face me, her posture straight and formal.

"I will be here at precisely six o'clock in the morning to walk you through your daily routines and duties regarding Lady Lilliana," she said sternly, though her eyes softened just a fraction. "Eat your supper and get to sleep early, Vivian. You have a very long day ahead of you tomorrow."

I offered her a soft, genuine smile. "I will. Goodnight, Mrs. Hayes."

"Goodnight, child."

Mrs. Hayes gave me a final nod and turned, walking back down the long corridor toward the main house.

I turned the brass handle of the double doors, pushed them open, and stepped inside, shutting the doors securely behind me.

The breath caught in my throat.

The guest quarters were vast—easily four times the size of the entire cramped, mold-scented apartment I had rented in Queens.

The high-ceilinged room was decorated in muted tones of cream, gold, and deep navy. Against one wall sat a magnificent, plush queen-sized bed made up with crisp white linens and a thick duvet. Opposite the bed was a large closet, a private vanity, and a sleek flat-screen television mounted above a faux marble fireplace. A small door to the right led to my own personal en-suite bathroom.

Near the bed by the corner, a small wooden table held a tray. Just as Mrs. Hayes had said, a steaming bowl of savory porridge sat waiting, sending up thin wisps of fragrant steam.

Beside the bowl sat a glass of fresh water and two small paper cups containing prescribed pain medication and antibiotics to keep the deep gash in my hand from infecting.

I looked at the food. I looked at the medicine. I looked at the massive, inviting bed.

I didn't take a single step toward any of it.

Instead, I slowly crossed the thick, plush carpet toward the far wall, where floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked the back of the property.

I reached out with my uninjured hand, unlocked the heavy latch, and pushed the grand glass door open, stepping out onto a tiny private stone balcony.

The cool, crisp New York night air hit my face instantly, whipping through my damp red hair and fluttering the soft cream fabric of my dress.

Below me stretched the vast, breathtaking expanse of the Blackwood estate. Illuminated by moonlight and elegant garden lamps, the grounds unfolded in staggering luxury—manicured rose gardens, sprawling stone pathways, hedge mazes, and grand marble fountains shooting arcs of shimmering water into the dark air.

Beyond the gardens stood the towering, impenetrable wrought-iron gates that sealed this palace off from the rest of the world.

It was a fortress of absolute wealth, power, and untouchable privilege.

A long, slow sigh escaped my lips—a sigh that carried away the terrified, sobbing girl on the alleyway pavement, the bruised waitress in the golden bikini, and the helpless orphan begging for mercy.

The helpless, trembling facade vanished from my posture. My shoulders squared, my back straightened, and the wide, frightened look in my eyes dissolved into something icy, calculating, and terrifyingly sharp.

Slowly, the corners of my lips pulled upward, curving into a dark, cunning, and ruthless smile.

I leaned against the stone railing, looking out over the sprawling kingdom of the man who thought he had just saved a pathetic stray from the gutters.

"Finally," I whispered into the quiet night air, my voice cold, calm, and completely devoid of fear.

A quiet, cruel laugh bubbled softly in my chest as I looked down at the glowing lights of the main estate.

"I'm exactly where I belong."

The Blackwood’s thought their fortress was impenetrable. They thought money and power made them gods. But they had just opened their front doors, handed me the keys, and paid me to stand inside their inner sanctum.

My eyes narrowed as I looked out at the dark horizon.

The countdown had begun.