The Hidden Heiress's Fake Marriage For Revenge

Vivian’s P.O.V

The calloused hand snaked up my thigh before the heavy crystal whiskey tumbler even touched the mahogany table.

I froze. My breath hitched in my throat as the glass in my hand trembled violently, ice cubes clinking against the sides like a frantic alarm bell. The man’s fingers dug deep into my bare skin, his sweaty palm brazenly possessive as he squeezed the soft flesh just below the hem of my golden bikini bottom.

I didn't scream. I didn't even gasp out loud. I just clamped my jaw shut, swallowed the bitter metallic taste of bile rising in my throat, and forced my eyes down toward the polished wood of the table.

After three long, exhausting years working at The Velvet Lounge, I had learned one fundamental truth: dignity was a luxury for people who had bank accounts to protect it.

On the outside, the club was legendary. Nestled in the heart of Manhattan, it was the worst-kept secret of New York’s elite—a playground reserved exclusively for politicians, wall street titans, oil magnates, and A-list celebrities.

To the public, these men were polished, philanthropy-giving icons of modern success. They wore five-thousand-dollar suits, smiled for red carpets, and spoke gracefully on news networks about ethics and progress.

But behind the heavy, soundproofed doors of the VIP suites—places like the Gold Room—the pristine masks came off.

It was astounding, almost sickening, to watch how fast the world's most powerful men shed their public perfection the second they thought no one was watching. The moment those doors clicked shut, the scotch started flowing, and the dim gold lights turned down low, they reverted into the ruthless animals they truly were.

They didn't see the staff as human beings. We were inventory. We were scenery. We were things to be used, degraded, and tipped away at the end of the night.

I forced a tight, shallow breath into my lungs, shifted my weight, and stepped smoothly out of the man’s reach, trying to make the movement look like part of my natural service routine. I reached for an empty bottle of Dom Pérignon on the far side of the curved leather booth.

The man didn't get the hint.

"Look at that," he sneered, tossing back the rest of his amber liquid and gesturing toward me with his empty glass. His face was flushed crimson, his bloodshot eyes heavy with alcohol and unearned arrogance. "A bit uptight for a girl working in a place like this, isn't she?"

Around the booth, a few of his rich, half-drunken companions broke into low chuckles.

"Careful there, Ron," a middle-aged man with a receding hairline called out, sloshing scotch over the lapel of his tailored suit as he leaned back against a velvet cushion. "Maybe her pussy is just as tight as her attitude."

A chorus of filthy, booming laughter erupted across the room. The sound bounced off the mirrored walls and deep red drapery, sharp and cruel.

Humiliation burned beneath my skin, hot and agonizing, turning my cheeks bright red. I bit the inside of my lip so hard I could taste blood.

I wasn't an exotic dancer. I had never taken off my clothes for money in my life. I was just a waitress—a plain, quiet girl trying to earn enough tips to pay for a tiny, mold-scented room in Queens and keep the electricity turned on for another month.

I had shown up to work five hours ago wearing my standard black trousers and button-down apron, ready for an exhausting but normal shift of carrying trays and wiping down counters. But at eight o'clock, Marcus, our ruthless club manager, had called me into his office.

A high-profile group of investors had booked the Gold Room for a private, full-service evening, and they had demanded that the waitstaff dress for the occasion.

Marcus had handed me a bundle of metallic fabric with a cold ultimatum: put it on, or get thrown out into the street.

So there I stood, exposed and miserable, stuffed into a golden bikini that barely covered my private areas, complete with a pair of ridiculous, itchy black bunny ears perched on top of my head. The drapes were thin, the straps dug into my skin, and every eye in the room had spent the last two hours treating my body like a public display.

‘Just endure it,’ I told myself, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. ‘Just clear the table, get the tray refilled, get through the shift, and go home.’

I gathered three empty crystal glasses in one hand, turning my back to the booth to retreat toward the service station near the exit.

"Hey! I wasn't done talking to you, sweetheart," Ron growled.

Before I could take a single step forward, his thick, calloused hand shot out and violently grabbed my wrist.

The unexpected force yanked me backward. My heels slid on the polished floor, throwing me completely off balance. The heavy silver tray slipped from my numb fingers, sending an army of crystal glasses, heavy decanters, ice, and sticky, expensive liquor crashing onto the hardwood floor with a deafening, echoing shatter.

But none of that mattered to the already intoxicated clients other than to snap everyone’s attention in my direction.

"Get back here," Ron grunted, lunging out of the booth.

He didn't just grab for me; he tackled me mid-turn. The sheer weight of his body slammed into mine, sending us both tumbling hard onto the booze-soaked floor.

I hit the ground with a gasp as the breath was violently knocked right out of my lungs. My head cracked against the hardwood, sending a sharp burst of white light flashing across my vision.

Before I could even recover my breath, Ron was on top of me. His heavy, alcohol-reeking body pinned my legs to the floor, his sweaty hands clawing aggressively at my waist and hips.

"Let go of me!" I screamed, the panic finally breaking through my years of forced silence. I fought back frantically, my small hands shoving with all my strength against his heavy, solid chest. "Get off me!"

"Don't play coy now, bitch!" he snarled, his breath smelling of stale cigars and cheap whiskey. His eyes were wild, a terrifying, predatory sneer twisting his features. "You came into this room dressed like a toy! Don't act surprised when someone wants to play with you!"

Around us, the other men didn't move to stop him. They didn't yell for security. Instead, they cheered. They held up their glasses, laughing and placing bets as if they were watching a sideshow act at a circus.

The club dancers serving the other tables shrank back into the shadows, terrified to intervene and lose their own jobs.

I was completely, utterly alone.

I thrashed against the floor, kicking my legs and trying to scramble backward away from his grip. But as I shoved my hand down against the floor to push myself up, my palm slammed directly onto a large, jagged piece of a broken whiskey glass.

A sharp, searing pain shot straight up my arm. The heavy crystal sliced deep into the skin of my palm, ripping through flesh and muscle.

I let out a strangled cry of agony, my vision blurring with instant tears. The intense shock of the pain made my body lock up, my guard dropping for a single, fatal split second—and Ron took full advantage.

Seeing me weaken, he lunged forward with a low, guttural chuckle and grabbed the thin metallic strap of my bikini top. With one violent, savage tug, the fabric strained, and the shoulder strap snapped with a loud, sickening pop.

"No!" I shrieked.

I curled into a instinctual ball on the floor, clutching my bleeding, raw hand to my chest as the gold fabric tore completely away, leaving me exposed, bleeding, and utterly helpless on the booze-stained carpet.

Blood was already pooling from my hand, mixing with the spilled whiskey and melted ice beneath me. I sobbed openly, my body shaking violently from the cold, the pain, and the overwhelming wave of raw terror.

Ron grinned down at me, completely unbothered by the blood. He hovered over my shaking frame, his eyes locking onto my exposed skin as he reached down to grab my waist once more, preparing to pin me down completely.

"That's more like it," he whispered, leaning down close to my ear. “Now, let me taste that—”

BOOM.

The sound cut through the room like a cannon shot.

The heavy, reinforced double doors of the VIP suite burst open with a resounding crack, the wood slamming violently against the side walls so hard that the glass light fixtures rattled above.

The cheering stopped instantly. The room went dead, terrifyingly silent. The pounding bass from the main floor outside seemed to freeze in the air.

Standing in the doorway was a tall, imposing silhouette framed by the bright lights of the outer hallway. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit that emphasized the powerful breadth of his shoulders, his tie loosened slightly at the collar.

He didn't look like the drunken animals sitting in the booths. He looked like an apex predator stepping into a den of scavengers.

His dark eyes swept over the shattered glass, the blood on the floor, the sneering man hovering over me, and finally, my small, shivering body trying desperately to cover itself.

An aura of pure, suffocating rage radiated off him—a cold, lethal shadow ready to consume everything in its path.

"Get off her," a voice rumbled through the silence. It wasn't loud, but it carried a terrifying weight that made every man in the room instantly freeze.

Dorian Blackwood had arrived.