Chapter 200

The air in the private booth was thick with cigar smoke and expensive cologne.

Maxwell Sterling flicked ash into a crystal tray, his cold gaze following the retreating figure of the cocktail waitress. "Clean yourself up. I won't have your filth staining my Tom Ford," he drawled, exhaling a perfect smoke ring.

The girl forced a practiced smile as she backed out of the VIP section. The moment the velvet curtains swished shut behind her, her face twisted in disgust. "Miserable bastard," she hissed, plucking at her ruined designer dress.

At Mirage Lounge, where bottles cost more than most people's rent, his tip had been downright insulting.

Her mind drifted to Adrian Blackwood - untouchable, impeccably dressed, never sparing her a second glance, but always leaving generous stacks of crisp bills.

Being assigned to Maxwell's table tonight was cosmic punishment.

Inside the private booth, the atmosphere shifted. A weasel-faced man with greasy hair leaned across the marble table, his fingers digging into his companion's thigh. "Max, you're a fucking visionary," he cackled.

"That whole white knight routine? Pure gold!" His beady eyes nearly disappeared when he laughed, giving him the permanent look of a sewer rat.

Maxwell shrugged off his Brioni jacket with a smirk. "Child's play. I don't bother with amateur theatrics."

Another man - Maxwell's head of security since prep school - nodded appreciatively. "Timing was flawless. We even tipped off the Emberglow County sheriff to sell the illusion."

Maxwell swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler before draining it. "Went there planning to fuck her and forget her." The glass hit the table with a sharp crack. "Imagine my surprise finding the precious Vivian Hartley slumming it at a budget motel."

His knuckles whitened around the empty glass. "Then those street rats appeared like divine intervention. Perfect setup for my grand entrance." A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Instead of gratitude? She looked at me like I was the threat."

One of his cronies snorted. "Still hung up on the Blackwood name, huh? Now that Serena's back from Paris..."

Maxwell's eyes darkened like storm clouds. "If she won't accept my generosity willingly, I'll make her beg." The thought of breaking Vivian's defiance sent heat coiling through his veins.

Without warning, he grabbed the nearest girl, ripping her blouse open with a sickening tear. The others barely glanced up as he shoved her onto the leather couch, their laughter and the thumping bass masking the vulgar sounds.

Next morning.

Film set.

Vivian stepped out of her town car onto the bustling studio lot. Before she could take three steps, a swarm of crew members descended upon her.

"Vivian! Thank god you're here!"

The first AD thrust a revised script into her hands while her makeup team descended with brushes and powder puffs. Through the chaos, she caught sight of a familiar black Maybach pulling through the gates - Adrian Blackwood had arrived.