Chapter 491

The realization turned his stomach. Vivian would never act this way. She always kept her boundaries, recoiling at the slightest hint of impropriety. Even if this woman shared some superficial resemblance to Vivian, her crude behavior felt like a desecration of Vivian's memory.

Seraphina trembled as she tried to pull her wrist free, her voice shaking. "Mr. Montclair, you're hurting me."

Julian didn't respond, his fingers tightening like steel bands around her delicate wrist. Seraphina bit her lip against the pain, knowing better than to resist.

With her other hand, she lifted the champagne flute toward him. "Mr. Montclair, please, have a drink."

After a tense moment, Julian finally released her, leaning back into the plush sofa with an icy dismissal. "Leave."

Not ready to surrender such a lucrative client, Seraphina persisted, glass still extended. "Mr. Montclair, what don't you like about me? My dress? I can change—maybe silk stockings? Or a schoolgirl uniform? Just tell me your preference."

As she spoke, her fingers flew to the clasp at her throat, letting the fabric part to reveal a scandalous amount of cleavage.

Julian's restraint shattered. He snatched the champagne flute and upended it over her perfectly styled hair without hesitation.

As the golden liquid streamed down her face, he said through clenched teeth, "I have standards."

Tears welled in Seraphina's eyes, humiliation burning her cheeks. During her years at the Mirage Lounge, she'd entertained society's elite. Even the most debauched patrons maintained superficial courtesy.

But never had anyone called her "beneath them" so bluntly. The insult cut deeper than any physical pain.

In Julian's universe, there were only two categories: Vivian Hartley, and everyone else.

Seraphina, accustomed to bending men to her will with a pout or a tearful glance, found her usual tactics useless against Julian's glacial indifference.

Defeated, she gathered what remained of her dignity. Rising on unsteady legs, she exited without another word, the sharp click of her Louboutins echoing in the tense silence.

As the door closed behind her, a bitter thought took root: Those lecherous old bankers at least knew how to appreciate a woman's charms. Compared to Julian Montclair, they suddenly seemed almost... respectable.

The manager pacing outside nearly tripped when he saw Seraphina emerge, her designer dress ruined by champagne. "Seraphina! What did you do to anger Mr. Montclair?"

Julian Montclair wasn't just any client. The manager both revered and feared him.

During Julian's first visit to the Mirage Lounge, he'd arrived with a group of foreign businessmen bearing identical raven tattoos on their necks. The manager hadn't recognized the symbol initially—until a regular whispered that it marked members of the infamous Obsidian Syndicate. In their world, that kind of association only meant one thing: danger.