Lightning tore the sky in a blinding flash, thunder cracking like a thousand war drums. Beverly Hills lay cloaked in darkness, drenched in rain. Streets were deserted, mansions silent in sleep—except for one room.
The air inside reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. Muffled voices, sweaty bodies tangled in shadows. Skin against skin. For him, it was pleasure. For her, it was prison.
Jennifer Lawrence lay beneath the weight of a man who grunted with animal hunger. His thrusts were not love, not desire—just raw lust, unfeeling and brutal. She shut her eyes, clinging to the covers as if they could shield her, whispering silently: It'll be over soon. Just breathe. Wait it out.
The man growled and flipped her onto her back. He thrust into her with aggressive, not love, not feel but with the insatiable thirst of lust. She squealed in pain but neither moved nor tried to stop him. He leaned into her ears and whispered,"I own you tonight and every other night".
Tears welled in her eyes and she mumbled a faint sound. He took it for pleasure.
The man grunted one more time and collapsed, his body shaking violently in ecstacy. He rolled over and immediately dozed off.
Hot tears blurred the ceiling above. Her body shook, fragile from what he'd took. She sniffed.
When she finally found her balance, she straightened up and staggered to the only chair in the room where she and dropped her purse. She fidgeted with it, her hands trembling, her breath ragged. She pulled out a cigarette and frantically searched for the lighter.
Three sparks, a long red glow and then a puff of smoke. She sank to the cold floor and savoured the smell of tobacco. Her eyes had dried up immediately they had gotten soaked. Her makeup was a mess just like her hair, rumpled, cut and dry. She grabbed it with a fistful and pulled. The tip of the cigarette glowed red when she drew a long puff.
She looked up at the windows, the cold had them fogged up and she could see the little lines of condensation trickle down.
She started to sob quietly, holding her head in shame. Why? She questioned, her chest hurt, the pain was swallowing her.
This life had dragged her to the abyss and the life she once hoped to have was nothing but a mere memory in the depths of her heart, lost. If only life would fight fair.
The room was suffocating. Shadows clung to the walls like chains, the silence pressing against her ears. She grabbed her purse, stuffed with wrinkled bills that mocked her, and forced herself toward the door.
Outside, the storm hit her face with icy rain. She didn't flinch. If anything, it was a relief—a reminder that she was still alive. Her boots splashed through puddles as she walked along the empty pavement, thunder cracking overhead.
Was this it? she thought bitterly. Was this all she would ever be? Those tears that had dried up resurfaced from the corners of her eyes and she cried as she went.
The sky lit up in a flash and her eyes caught a figure ahead. Alarmed she slowed. The figure was leaning against what looked like a car's frame. She drew closer keeping to her own side of the street. It was a man, he was atleast 6 feet tall. He leaned against the sleek frame of his car his suit drenched, his posture defeated. Not powerful. Not proud. Just…tired as though carrying a weight only he knew.
He looked up abruptly like he had sensed her presence. He said no words, his eyes never blinked, not for once. They just stared at her. She stopped. Was he the client she was supposed to meet that night. She was reluctant, why wasn't he moving, they all moved, they all couldn't wait to get their hands on her, his silence was dreadful.
Then he moved, his arms dropped sideways hanging loosely, his shoulders dropped as well "You shouldn't be out here tonight" his voice flat yet heavy with concern and not desire. And for the first time in years, Jennifer froze—because this man didn't sound like a client at all.
***
Vincent strolled the long corridors of the fifty–floored skyscraper, hands tucked into his tailored slacks, head high, shoulders squared. His steps echoed with authority, but inside he was shattered, his world crumbling faster than he could react. Hushed whispers rose as he passed. His truth was out.
He had just signed the papers. The end of his five–year marriage, the first time life had blindsided him.
Vivian Holman, his secretary, walked close behind. One sharp look from her cut the murmurs.
"Let them talk," Vincent muttered, his broken voice betraying him.
Inside his office, Vivian slammed the door. The glass walls blurred instantly, privacy sealing them in. Vincent sank into his chair, defeated.
Vivian laid a stack of files before him.
"What's that?" His voice was low, sharp.
"You can still fight," she replied, steady. "She gets half, yes—but if we control which assets she takes, we protect your strength."
Vincent's glare could have cut steel.
"None of this matters to me!" He hissed, then suddenly overturned his desk with a violent crash. "I lost the woman I loved for five years—and my unborn child! And you think this—this—" He gestured at the papers, his voice cracking. "You think this matters?"
His hands shook as he paced to the window. Panic clawed at him—Vincent Moretti, panicking. The thought made him laugh, hollow and sharp. For the first time in his life, he knew fear.
Vivian didn't flinch. She'd seen his worst tantrums. "Vincent," she said firmly. "This is not the time to surrender. You know who the real enemy is."
He shook his head. "You don't get it, Vivian. This is it. I don't get to play hero anymore."
"Says who?" she snapped back. "You've built this empire from nothing, and you'll let a lie ruin it? What would your father—"
"My father is dead!" His roar shook the room. He kicked an armchair aside. "Leave."
Vivian calmly gathered the files, slid them into his case. "Our discussion isn't over." She left.
Vincent sank to the floor, tugging at his tie with trembling hands. Was this the end? He couldn't even see a tunnel, let alone the light.
Tracy Donovan had been his love since college. Heir to Moretti Homes, she to Donovan Couture. For years they were the golden couple, envied by all. But dreams don't last. By their fifth year, loyalty had soured into division. Now she was gone—taking half his world with her.
Should he have merged the empires after all? His shoulders shook. He was unraveling.
His phone buzzed. "Sir, your ride is ready."
He splashed water on his face, stared at the man in the mirror—dark circles, sleepless nights, caffeine in his veins. Then he walked out, his broad back disappearing into the black Maybach.
At Beverly Hills, he ordered the car to stop.
"Any destination, sir?" Carlos asked.
"I need time alone. Leave the car." Vincent walked to the curb and sat.
The skies opened. Rain poured in sheets, flooding the streets. He tilted his face upward, praying it was just a nightmare—that he'd wake to Tracy curled beside him. But the harder he wished, the sharper the truth cut. There would never be a Vincent and Tracy again. Soon, there might not even be a Moretti Homes.
"I failed you, Mom," he whispered to the storm.
Head bowed, he leaned against the car, oblivious to the downpour. Time blurred. Until—footsteps.
He looked up. A figure approached, small, fragile, soaked to the bone. Definitely a woman. He didn't care. But when their eyes met, something in her brokenness gave him pause.
"You shouldn't be out here tonight," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
She didn't move. Didn't answer.
Straightening, Vincent stalked toward her. If this was some paparazzi trick, he'd crush it. But as he drew closer, her delicacy stopped him cold. She trembled silently under the rain, looking homeless, beaten, lost.
Women were all the same, he reminded himself, turning back toward his car.
And yet—he stopped. Turned again.
"I should give you a ride home."