The door shut behind me with a soft but final click.
The air inside the VVIP lounge was heavy, thick with the scent of wealth and wickedness. Expensive cologne, slow burning cigars, aged whiskey. The music was low and slow, curling like smoke around crystal glasses already sweating on polished wood.
And the room wasn't empty.
Four men sat in deep leather chairs, a wall of power in human form. The kind of men who didn't need to speak to be heard, who wore danger like cologne. Their presence rippled through the space like a quiet threat.
But I only saw one of them.
Cyprian.
His gaze was already on me. And this time, it wasn't unreadable or calm.
It was cold. Blistering. Furious.
I froze.
My pulse skipped, then sprinted. My hands, already unsteady, began to tremble. I curled them around the tray I held to hide it.
His eyes dragged down my body. slow, deliberate, with a disgusted twitch of his jaw. Like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
I looked away, heat flooding my face.
This wasn't how I wanted him to see me. Not like this. Not in this tiny dress with the slit crawling halfway up my thigh, standing in a room full of men who thought I was just another pretty thing hired to serve and be seen.
I moved to the bar, trying to disappear, but every cell in my body screamed that he was still watching me.
The men continued talking business, cryptic mentions of territories, shipments, offshore movements. I wasn't really listening. My head was too full of questions.
What was he doing here?
Was he one of them?
And why did he look like I'd betrayed him?
Cyprian stood.
Not suddenly. Not awkwardly. He moved with precision, with the quiet grace of a predator. He walked to the bar...my bar...and reached for a glass.
I held my breath as he poured his own drink. He didn't look at me at first.
But then....
"So this is what you are," he said, voice low and cutting, almost like it was meant only for me. "The kind that serves herself… along with the drinks."
His words knocked the breath out of me.
"I'm not..." I started, my voice thin.
He scoffed, eyes cold as ice. "Don't play the innocent act. Not here. Not with them watching."
He sipped his whiskey without breaking eye contact.
"Don't embarrass yourself any further. Keep your mouth shut. Don't create a scene."
My lips trembled, and I gripped the edge of the bar to stop my hands from shaking.
He stepped past me, brushing close enough for his shoulder to graze mine, and took his seat like nothing happened. Like he hadn't just shattered something inside me with a few careless words.
My face burned. My body felt exposed, especially with the slit of my dress suddenly feeling too high, my skin too bare, my dignity too fragile.
Then...
"I'll have a drink too," one of the other men said lazily, voice deep and edged with amusement. "The girl can bring it."
I nodded quickly, preparing the drink with shaky fingers. I felt their eyes on me, measured, amused, assessing.
I carried the glass across the room carefully, doing my best to steady my hand, to keep my knees from wobbling.
The man watched me approach like he was picking apart a meal before devouring it.
I offered him the glass with a polite smile, but before I could straighten, his hand shot out.
Rough. Fast.
It slid up my bare thigh, past where it should have, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
I gasped, frozen.
Then the glass slipped from my hand.
It shattered against his chest, splashing cold liquid all over his shirt and lap.
The room went silent.
The man stared at the mess dripping from his suit.
Then slowly, dangerously, he looked at me.
"You stupid little bitch," he growled.
Before I could explain, before I could even move, his hand gripped my arm like a vice and yanked.
Pain bloomed instantly. His fingers dug into flesh and bone as he shoved me hard enough that I stumbled and hit the floor.
My knees scraped against the polished tiles. The tray clattered beside me.
The other men chuckled quietly, amused at the spectacle.
I stayed down.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream.
I just stayed there, humiliated, burning, blinking against the sting in my eyes.
But it wasn't the fall that hurt.
It was the stillness.
The silence.
Cyprian hadn't moved.
Hadn't said a word.
He just sat there, jaw clenched, muscles tense, watching it all happen like it was none of his business.
Like I was none of his business.
And that… shattered something deeper.
I looked up at him through blurred eyes, searching for something, anything, behind that hard, unreadable face.
But I found nothing.
I had thought, for a second, that maybe.....
No. That was my mistake.
I knew what this job was. I knew who these men were.
I had no right to expect protection from any of them.
Especially not from him.
Especially not after what I'd just done.
I slowly pushed myself off the floor, my knees aching, my arm throbbing where he'd grabbed me. I gathered the tray and the broken glass with as much dignity as I could fake, then turned to leave the room.
No one stopped me.
No one apologized.
I didn't even glance back at Cyprian.
Because I didn't trust what I'd do if I saw him looking at me like I was nothing.
And maybe… maybe that's exactly what I was to him now.
I stood, my legs trembling beneath me, pain throbbing in my arm where he'd yanked me down. I reached for the tray on the floor, gathering the scattered pieces like some desperate attempt to piece myself back together.
I turned, silently moving toward the bar, needing to do something, get another drink, distract myself, disappear.
But the man wasn't done.
"Wait," he said coolly.
I froze mid-step.
He leaned back in his chair, still soaked in liquor, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Come here."
My grip on the tray tightened.
"Come lick this shit off me," he said.
The laughter from the others was low, thick, like smoke curling around my neck. The kind that suffocates.
I didn't move.
I couldn't.
I stood there, stunned, mouth dry, chest heaving.
"What? Now you're shy?" he taunted. "Thought you were one of those girls who serves herself and the drink."
More laughter.
I felt Cyprian's presence like a weight behind my ribs, but I didn't dare look his way.
"She doesn't want to play," someone chuckled.
"No worries," the first man said, voice turning harder. "If you won't lick, then strip. Right here. Let's see what we're really paying for."
The tray slipped slightly in my grip.
"No," I breathed, voice small.
He raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"
"I, I'm not here for that," I said, barely audible. "I serve drinks. That's all."
The silence that followed was sharp. Then the men burst into laughter like I'd told the best joke of the night.
He stood, slowly, deliberately, and crossed the room toward me.
"You think they'd put you in here just to pour drinks?" he said. "You walk in looking like that, with that dress, and think we'd just let you stand there like furniture?"
"I didn't..."
Before I could finish, his hand was in my hair.
He gripped it tight and yanked, dragging me across the floor like a ragdoll while the others watched with mild amusement, as if this was just part of the night's entertainment.
"No! Please!" I gasped, struggling, clawing at his hand.
But he didn't care.
He shoved me over the arm of the couch, the edge biting into my stomach. His hand slid down the back of my dress, gripping the fabric at my waist.
Then came the sound of it tearing.
Cold air hit my back as the material split open, baring more of me than I ever intended. I could feel their stares crawling across my skin like insects.
The laughter returned, louder this time.
I screamed, my voice muffled against the couch, but no one outside the room would hear. The walls were too thick. The music too soft. And the only people who could do something… didn't.
I tried to twist free, to fight him off, but he was stronger.
He tugged harder, my panties next, and I felt the last layer of safety rip away from me.
"No!" I sobbed. "Please, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to spill it, I swear! I'll clean it, I'll....please don't do this!"
The man just laughed, shoving me down harder, preparing to take what I didn't offer.
And the worst part?
No one moved.
No one stopped him.
I turned my head, eyes desperately seeking one face.
Cyprian.
He sat at the table, whiskey glass still in hand. His jaw was tight, his eyes hard, but he didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't even blink.
He just watched.
And that, more than anything else, broke me.
I wanted to scream at him. Curse him. Beg him.
But I didn't have the strength.
I was shaking. Helpless. Humiliated beyond reason.
Then, just as the man behind me began to fumble with his belt, another voice broke through the madness.
"Enough."
Everything stopped.
The man looked up, annoyed. "What?"
"I said," Cyprian repeated, standing slowly, "move. I'll take her instead."
Time froze.
My stomach dropped.
I lifted my head, a fragile flicker of hope sparking, was he saving me?
But then I saw his face.
Not mercy.
Not anger.
Not concern.
Just… cold purpose.
The man behind me chuckled. "Be my guest." He stepped back with a twisted grin and adjusted his shirt, like this was all just a casual exchange.
I barely had time to react.
Cyprian was already walking over, slow and deliberate like a man approaching a deal, not a person.
He reached me, his hand pressing me back down as if nothing about this was unusual. As if I meant nothing.
And I realized the truth.
He wasn't saving me.
He was claiming me.
My body went still.
Whatever was left of me, the girl who once believed in fairness, in being seen, in being more, died right then and there.
And when he finished, he simply stood, adjusted his suit jacket, and walked away.
No words.
No glance.
Nothing.
The door clicked behind him.
And I was left there, naked, broken, shaking on that couch in front of the same men who'd laughed and watched and done nothing.
My chest heaved. My throat burned. But I didn't cry.
Not yet.
I just stared at the floor.
Alone.
Hating him.
Hating myself.
And knowing, deep in the pit of my soul, that I'd never be the same again.