Page 49

Vice's harsh voice pierced the quiet night, jolting Ivy from her peaceful slumber.

"Get up," he barked insistently, his eyes gleaming in the moonlit room.

Ivy's eyes snapped open, and she groaned, the warm cocoon of her blankets no match for the cold reality of being woken at such an ungodly hour.

She rolled over, hoping to ignore him and sink back into sleep, but Vice was relentless.

With a resigned sigh, she pushed herself up from the bed, her legs feeling like led as she swung them over the side. The floor was cold and unforgiving under her bare feet. "What time is it?" She asked, her voice thick with irritation.

"Two AM," Vice replied, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Vice raised a hand, and the candles flickered to life.

Ivy squinted, trying to adjust her vision to the light.

She walked over to him. As she approached, she noticed the drink in his hand, the brown liquid sloshing around in the glass.

The faint aroma of whiskey wafted towards her, a biting scent that seemed to match his tone.

"What could be so important that you had to wake me up at this hour?" she asked, her voice laced with annoyance.

Vice stepped further into the room, closing the heavy oak door with a soft click that echoed through the tense silence.

He leaned back against the closed door, a casual pose that belied the predatory gleam in his eyes.

He watched her with an unsettling intensity, never breaking eye contact.

"I have a very important business associate coming over," he said, the hint of a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"You need to see to it he has a good time. "

"What the fuck? I'm not doing that." Ivy's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. The words were out before she could even fully process them. "What makes you think that I would do that?" The thought of what he was implying sent a wave of nausea crashing over her.

"You do not have a choice, Ivy," he said, his voice low and even, stripped of any warmth or emotion.

He extended a hand, offering her the glass of brandy.

“This will help,” he murmured, the words laced with a subtle threat.

The amber liquid glinted in the pale moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains, a cruel reminder of the power he held over her, the power he wielded so carelessly.

"You will entertain him," he continued, his gaze unwavering, "and you will do it well. "

Her stomach turned at the thought of being used in such a way, the idea of another man touching her, filled her with revulsion.

She took the glass from him, the weight of the crystal feeling like a leaden burden in her hand, a physical manifestation of the heavy weight of his expectations.

"What does this associate want?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Vice's face morphed into a smile that was far from comforting; it was a wicked, predatory sight. "He wants a good time," he replied, his tone dripping with insinuation. “And if you do not deliver, it won't be you that suffers.” The threat hung heavy in the air, unspoken but unmistakable.

She knew he wasn't bluffing. She knew the depths of his cruelty, and she wasn’t about to test him. "I can't let another man touch me, please Vice," she begged, her eyes wide with horror. The vulnerability in her voice was a sharp contrast to the defiance she had shown only moments before.

He shrugged, his expression unyielding, his heart seemingly untouched by her plea.

"You have two hours," he said, turning and walking towards the door, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.

"Do not disappoint, or you'll regret it.

" He called out to her from the hallway, his voice a chilling promise.

The door closed with a heavy thud, and she was alone once more, the silence amplifying the echo of his words.

In a surge of helpless rage, she flung the brandy glass at the door, watching it shatter into pieces, the sound echoing through the room like the shattering of her heart.

The amber liquid splattered against the wood, mingling with the plush fibers of the rug, the potent scent of oak and alcohol filling the air, a suffocating mix of comfort and despair.

She sank to the floor, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Ivy’s mind raced with thoughts of escape, of rebellion, of the sweet taste of freedom that she knew she’d never taste again.

She could run, disappear into the anonymity of the city, but she knew he would find her, and the consequences would be far worse than anything she could imagine.

She knew she had to play this twisted game, at least for now, but the thought of it made her stomach churn with bile.

She pushed herself to her feet, her legs wobbly from the toxic mix of fear and overwhelming anger coursing through her veins.

Her bare feet padded quietly across the cold stone floor to the bathroom.

The room was bathed in a soft blue glow from the moon outside, casting eerie shadows on the gleaming chrome fixtures.

She turned the shower on, the sound of the water hitting the tiles a welcome relief from the oppressive silence that had settled over her room.

The warmth of the water enveloped her as she stepped into the shower.

The heat did little to soothe her. She scrubbed herself clean, the scent of her jasmine soap a stark contrast to the whiskey-laced air that lingered. The water washed away her tears, but not the heaviness in her chest.

Stepping out of the shower, she wrapped a towel around her body, the soft fabric doing little to shield her from the coldness that had seeped into her bones.

She reached for a towel to dry her hair, her eyes catching a glimpse of something unfamiliar on the counter.

A small bottle, nestled between her toothpaste and hairbrush.

It was a deep shade of red, almost black, with a silver cap that gleamed in the moonlit bathroom.

Curiosity and anger warred within her as she approached the counter. It was a perfume bottle, she realized, the glass cool to the touch. The label read 'Midnight Seduction'.

Her sadness turned to anger, the kind of anger that burned hot and fast, consuming everything in its path.

How could Vice do this to her? After all the moments they had shared, the whispers of affection and the gentle touches that had once felt so genuine.

She had been a fool to believe she meant anything to him, other than a pawn in his twisted games of power and manipulation.

With trembling hands, she picked up the bottle. The scent was sickly sweet. She couldn't bring herself to use it, to become the plaything he wanted her to be. Her grip tightened around the bottle, and with a primal scream, she hurled it at the mirror.

The glass shattered with a satisfying crack, sending shards flying everywhere.

The room was suddenly alive with the scent of the perfume, a cloying cloud that filled her nostrils, taunting her with its very presence.

She watched the silver cap roll to a stop at the edge of the tub, the crimson liquid seeping into the grout between the tiles like blood.

The mirror's reflection was a twisted mess of jagged edges and shadows, a warped image of the girl who had once dreamed of a life free from fear and pain.

Her anger dissipated, leaving a cold, hard emptiness in its wake.

She walked out of the bathroom; the towel still clutched around her body.

The bed looked untouched, the pillows plump and inviting, a stark contrast to the chaos she felt inside.

She knew she had to get dressed; to play the part he had assigned her, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

Her gaze fell upon a dress lying on the bed where she had tossed it, the dress she had worn on Vice's birthday.

A mockery of the joyous occasion it had once been a part of.

Now, the vibrant fabric seemed to mock her, a reminder of a time when she had believed in the possibility of happiness.

She slid it on with trembling hands, each movement feeling like a betrayal of her own dignity, a surrendering of her very soul.

The clock on the wall chimed, each echoing notes a nail in the coffin of her hope.

The heavy, deliberate footsteps grew louder in the hallway, announcing the inevitable arrival of her tormentor, and she braced herself for what was to come.

She stood with her back facing the door, a fragile shield against the coming storm.

She closed her eyes, trying to calm her erratic breathing.

She felt like she was going to cry and throw up, the fear constricting her throat, stealing her breath. The door creaked open...

"You look...beautiful," a familiar voice purred, laced with a false sweetness that sent a shiver of dread down Ivy's spine.

Ivy whipped around, her eyes narrowing into furious slits. "You!" she spat, the word a venomous projectile, as sharp and dangerous as the shards of shattered glass glinting on the floor near the door she wished she had barricaded.

The man from the bookstore, the same one who had smiled so warmly at her, stepped fully into the room.

A wicked grin stretched across his face, a mask that did little to conceal the predatory gleam in his eyes.

They travelled over her, lingering on her curves, with a hunger that made her skin crawl, stripping away her confidence and leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

"Ivy," he said, his voice smoother than the expensive brandy she'd thrown at the door. It was a voice she’d had found charming, even comforting before. Now, it dripped with menace. "What a pleasant surprise."