Fatal Transaction

Chapter 2

London, Nine Years Ago

The scent of sweat and stale dust clung to the isolated gymnasium of St. Jude High School. Vivienne lay sprawled on the cold cement, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches between muffled sobs. Her thick glasses lay shattered somewhere in the dark, leaving her world a terrifying, indistinct blur.

"Look at the Bookworm," sneered Beatrix, the leader of the school’s elite, impeccably dressed clique. Her piercing laugh echoed off the high rafters. "How dare you trick Maximilian into thinking you were his girlfriend? You're an embarrassment, Vivienne. Your very presence is pollution."

The sound of tearing fabric was sickening. Vivienne screamed as her uniform was yanked and shredded. Rough hands began scrawling on the skin of her shoulders and chest with permanent markers—vile, filthy words intended to strip her of her last shred of dignity. Outside the gym, a group of boys laughed, watching the spectacle from a distance as if Vivienne’s suffering were nothing more than a cheap afternoon amusement.

In the depths of her despair, the heavy gym door creaked open, revealing a tall silhouette. Even through her blurred vision, Vivienne recognized him instantly. It was him. Maximilian Thorne.

"Max! Help me!" Vivienne shrieked, her voice raw and hoarse.

Maximilian’s footsteps faltered. He stood frozen at the threshold, surveying the horrific scene with a flat, emotionless expression.

For a heartbeat, Vivienne’s soul trembled with hope—surely he would step in and end this madness. But Maximilian only stared at her coldly for a few seconds, then turned on his heel and walked away without a single word. The silence he left behind, and the sight of his retreating back, was a wound far deeper than any physical tear in her clothes.

"Stop struggling, b***h!" Beatrix shoved Vivienne's shoulder, slamming her against an old, rusted metal rack. The loud clang was a dull thud compared to the lightning-bolt pain shooting through her spine.

Vivienne could only curl into a ball, her trembling hands trying to shield what little her torn uniform still covered. But the boys surrounding Beatrix only laughed harder. They stepped forward, closing the circle of the hunt.

"So, the Bookworm has such smooth skin," whispered one of Beatrix’s friends—the arrogant athlete Vivienne had so often helped with math homework. Without warning, he roughly seized her wrist, prying her protective grip away.

"Don't touch me! Please... stop!" Vivienne sobbed, her tears carving tracks through the grime on her cheeks.

But her pleas were merely gasoline on the fire of their cruelty. They began tossing her from hand to hand like a plaything. She was pawed at, shoved, and discarded without dignity until she collapsed back onto the rough cement. Her knees were scraped and bleeding, but the physical sting paled in comparison to the humiliation they hurled at her.

"Who would even want to touch such a disgusting thing?" Beatrix hissed, spitting on the floor inches from Vivienne’s face. "You’re trash, Vivienne. And trash belongs beneath our feet."

Vivienne squeezed her eyes shut. Her mind drifted back to the moment Maximilian had stood in the doorway. She could still feel the glacial weight of his stare—as if he didn’t even see her as human.

*Why?* she screamed silently. *Why did you just stand there?*

The world seemed to crumble as their laughter rang in her ears. Vivienne stopped screaming. She stopped fighting. She could only cry in a hollow, broken silence while those hands continued to violate her dignity, letting a dark, poisonous hatred take root in the ruins of her soul.

***

Vivienne bolted upright in bed. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and cold sweat slicked her neck. She instinctively touched her shoulder, as if she could still feel the scratch of the markers from a decade ago.

"Just a dream, Vivienne. Just useless trash from the past," she whispered to herself, staring up at the vaulted ceiling of her penthouse.

She rose and began her ritual of transformation. Tonight was the meeting at *The Obsidian*. Vivienne chose an emerald-green silk dress that draped perfectly over her curves—the same body Beatrix’s gang had once deemed "shameful." She applied a coat of deep crimson lipstick, completing the image of an untouchable goddess.

When she arrived at the exclusive bar, the atmosphere was hushed and heavy. Only a select few were present. Vivienne sat in a velvet armchair in a shadowed corner, sipping her bourbon. Then, the sound of steady, rhythmic footsteps approached.

A man emerged from the gloom, wearing a bespoke suit worth thousands. Maximilian Thorne. He was far more striking and intimidating than he had been ten years ago; his jaw was sharper, and he radiated an aura of absolute, crushing power.

Though her logic screamed that this man was the devil who had let her be destroyed, she couldn't suppress a strange shiver as his icy eyes locked onto hers. His handsomeness was a lethal snare.

Maximilian stopped directly in front of her table, his intensity seeming to pierce through her very soul.

Vivienne rose slowly, forcing her most captivating, practiced smile. She extended a gloved hand, showing not a hint of a tremor.

"Good evening, Mr. Thorne. I am Emerald," she said, her voice a low, seductive purr. It was her alias—the most expensive escort in London, with rates no one could rival. Only a handful of clients she deemed "worthy" ever learned her true name.

Maximilian took her hand. The contact was like a static shock. He didn’t release her immediately; instead, he leaned down slightly, inhaling the notes of her perfume.

"Just as your reputation suggests, Vivienne. Your aura and elegance are indeed... high-priced," Maximilian said, his eyes raking over her from head to toe.

Vivienne slowly withdrew her hand, a flash of cold vengeance veiled behind her shimmering eyes.

"Thank you. And since you’ve paid such an exorbitant deposit, I’ll ensure you have a pleasant time tonight, Maximilian. A night so memorable you’ll never forget it for the rest of your life."

She wanted to laugh but held it back; she saw with absolute certainty that he did not recognize the woman standing before him.

Maximilian pulled out a chair without waiting for an invitation. He sat casually, unbuttoning his jacket to accommodate his broad shoulders, his gaze never leaving her.

"I’m glad to hear you intend to entertain me, 'Emerald,'" he said, his voice dripping with a subtle, sarcastic edge. "But I didn’t pay a million dollars for sweet promises. I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women with clever tongues, and they usually end up being dreadfully boring in bed."

Vivienne kept her smile intact, though her heart tightened. That tone—it was just as sharp as it had been nine years ago.

"I am no 'ordinary' woman, Mr. Thorne. You are paying for a quality you won't find in any other bar or house in London."

Maximilian let out a dry, mirthless chuckle. "Quality? You talk as if you’re a rare diamond in a display case. Yet we both know exactly what you’re selling here."

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished mahogany.

"I don’t like wasting time. Your reputation says you can give a man whatever he desires. But to me, you just look like a fragile woman trying to hide something behind an expensive dress. What is it, Emerald? Fear? Or just a desperate ambition to drain my bank account?"

The tongue was still a blade. His words were designed to dissect, to crush the spirit of anyone caught in his orbit.

Vivienne sipped her bourbon with practiced grace, letting the liquid burn her throat before responding.

"Ambition? Perhaps. But if you're worried your wealth will dry up after a single night with me, then perhaps you’ve come to the wrong place, Maximilian. I don't take clients who are riddled with doubt," she countered, staring directly into his frozen eyes.

Maximilian’s lip curled into a slight smirk; the cold glint in his eyes shifted—perhaps a flicker of genuine interest.

"You have the nerve to drop the 'Mr.' and use my name. Bold. But remember one thing: at *The Obsidian*, I decide whether tonight is heaven or hell for you. Don't get too comfortable; I can ruin your reputation faster than you can unzip that dress."

Vivienne felt the familiar surge of fury, but this time it was fuel. This man hadn't changed; he still believed he was the center of the universe.

"Then let us see, Maximilian," Vivienne whispered, her voice smooth as velvet and sharp as a dagger. "Who will be the first to fall to their knees before the sun rises."

Maximilian stood, jerking his head toward the private corridor leading to the VVIP suites.

"Save the talk. Let’s see if your million-dollar 'service' is as sharp as your mouth," he replied, refusing to give an inch to a woman he thought he owned.