Chapter 1

The night before our engagement, my boyfriend—the disciplined, by-the-book attorney who also happened to be my mentor—snapped and pinned me against his desk, all control gone.

The next day, a video of us together in that moment was suddenly broadcast on the courtroom screens in front of everyone.

I lost my law license on the spot. In an instant, I became the most hated woman on the internet.

My dad rushed forward and slapped him across the face, but he was kicked down the steps without hesitation.

"Judge Lindth, when you framed my brother and sent him to death row, did it ever cross your mind that your perfect little daughter would end up like this?" Christopher spat.

"You traded my brother's life for your career. I'm just using your daughter's reputation to settle the score."

My dad suffered a fatal heart attack on the spot. My mom, unable to bear it, took her own life shortly after.

To repay the massive debt he engineered and left behind, I ended up at the very bottom of an underground club, serving drinks and being pushed around by men who saw me as nothing more than entertainment.

Four years later, I was in a private room, forced down onto a glass table by a group of older men, made to drink until I could barely stay conscious.

And at the head of the table sat Christopher Tales, the man who now held all the power.

*****

"Drink up! Ms. Lindth, weren't you the one who could talk circles around everyone in court? What happened—can't even handle a shot now?" Samson Brown jeered.

His pudgy fingers gripped my hair tightly, slamming my face onto the cold glass table.

The amber liquor was shoved down my nose and throat, harsh and burning, making my eyes water.

I choked and coughed hard, tears and booze mixing as they ran down my cheeks, smudging my bargain-bin mascara.

The room was dim and hazy, filled with sleazy, sticky laughter echoing all around.

"Mr. Brown, you really don't know how to show any mercy. After all, she used to be Judge Lindth's beloved daughter."

"Precious daughter? Give me a break—she's just a whore for sale now."

I didn’t struggle. I just focused on breathing, letting their nasty words roll over me like dirty water.

Ever since that scandal was broadcast to the whole internet four years ago, dignity became a luxury I could never afford again.

I struggled to turn my head, my gaze slipping past the scattered bottles on the table to the head of the private room.

Christopher Tales.

He wore a flawlessly tailored black suit, sitting with his legs crossed and absently toying with a silver lighter.

The flame danced, its light flickering across his aloof, refined features.

Four years ago, those long, elegant fingers had wrapped around my wrist, patiently guiding me through complicated case files with that calm, gentle touch of his.

He once said to me, "Vivian, the law is sacred. Always respect it—never lose your reverence."

But in the end, he was the one who personally dragged me down to hell, making me the internet's most reviled woman.

"Mr. Tales, look at her—still tough as nails, huh?" Samson said, trying to please him.

He let out a low, icy chuckle.

"Tough? That just means you haven't paid enough," he replied.

He casually tossed the lighter onto the table, making a sharp, clear sound.

"If you're so interested, Mr. Brown, why not be a little more generous?"

Samson got the hint right away. He pulled out two thick stacks of cash and slammed them down on the table.

"Drink this whole bottle, then give us a striptease, and the 5,000 dollars is yours."

I stared at the stacks of cash, my throat tightening as I swallowed hard.

5,000 dollars.

I needed another 30 thousand dollars to pay off the loan sharks before the deadline.

If I couldn't come up with the money, those loan sharks would toss my parents' urns—still being held hostage on the black market—straight into the filthy gutter.

I gripped the edge of the table and slowly pushed myself up.

Liquor dripped down my chin, soaking my cheap spaghetti-strap dress.

"Mr. Brown, striptease is so boring," I said, pulling a professional, fawning smile onto my face.

I grabbed the unopened bottle of liquor from the table and, without a second thought, slammed it hard against the edge of the glass table.

There was a heavy crash.

Glass shards flew everywhere, glinting sharply under the lights.

The whole room froze. Everyone gaped at me, shocked.

I kicked off my heels and, barefoot, stepped deliberately onto the jagged glass shards, one step at a time.

Sharp pain stabbed through my soles, and warm blood pooled, turning the clear glass shards crimson.

But I moved as if the pain didn't exist, swaying my hips to the thumping bass.

"Mr. Brown, is a blood-stained dance worth your 5,000 dollars?" I said, my voice dripping with mockery.

Grinning, I strutted right up to Samson and deliberately dragged my bloodied foot across his polished leather shoes.

My pale legs, splashed with vivid red blood, made for a striking visual—like a punch right to the gut.

Samson's face went ghost-white as he jerked back in terror.

"She's insane! This woman's totally nuts!" he yelled.

The guests all recoiled, their faces drained of color, eyes full of panic and fear.

I wanted money.