Descent Into Oblivion

The thumping bass of Oblivion nightclub reverberated straight through the floorboards, shaking the glass in Cleo’s hands. The sensory assault of flashing neon lights, heavy perfume, and the suffocating stench of expensive cigars offered a jarring, sickening contrast to the sterile, freezing operating room that still haunted her waking nightmares. Oblivion catered exclusively to the elites of V City. The patrons who crossed this velvet-roped threshold possessed unimaginable wealth and unchecked power.

Cleo had always despised establishments built on such blatant, unapologetic excess. She never imagined she would stoop so low, parading herself as a mere drinks promoter in this wretched environment.

Desperation drove her here. She had naively believed the nightmare was over when Vaughn Lockwood handed her a check for three million. She only needed three hundred thousand to pay for Corbin’s life-saving surgery. That brief, fragile illusion of salvation shattered into jagged pieces the moment Corbin informed her the check was a forgery. The revelation struck her chest with the force of a physical blow. The devil had scammed her.

By some cruel twist of fate, the Vance family miraculously scraped together the initial surgery funds themselves. Cleo could not fathom where they sourced the money, considering they were the ones who begged her to find it in the first place. Their sudden financial resourcefulness came with a steep, unforgiving price. Her future grandmother-in-law mercilessly dumped the exorbitant monthly rehabilitation costs onto Cleo’s frail shoulders. Corbin required at least one hundred thousand a month to recover. A nobody like her could barely scrounge up a fraction of that amount. Hence, she found herself trapped in this luxurious hellhole, selling her pride for pennies.

Roxanne Blair shoved Cleo toward the heavy gilded doors of the VIP corridor. "Hurry up. Room 501 requested a bottle of Ace of Spades. Go in and serve the drinks."

The manager’s voice was sharp and devoid of sympathy. Room 501 was the undisputed pinnacle of Oblivion’s hierarchy. The occupants were untouchable business tycoons and corrupt politicians.

Roxanne leveled a hard, warning glare at her. "Keep your head down and turn a blind eye to whatever is happening inside. Do you understand?"

A cold chill raced down Cleo’s spine. She stood there in a plain white maxi dress and matching high-heeled boots. Her face was bare of makeup, devoid of even a tinge of rouge on her pale cheeks. Balancing the heavy tray of expensive liquor with a trembling hand, she pressed down on the brass door handle.

She stepped into the dim, chaotic suite. The atmosphere shifted instantly. The pulsing music from the main floor faded into a heavy, decadent quiet, replaced by the clinking of crystal glasses and muffled, inappropriate laughter. Every top-tier beauty employed by Oblivion seemed to be clustered in this single room, draped over wealthy patrons in various states of undress. Cleo kept her gaze locked on the plush carpet. She took a tentative step forward, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.

A heavy body collided with hers in the gloom. The tray tipped, but Cleo managed to stabilize the crystal glasses just in time.

A man loomed over her. "Throwing yourself at me so soon? Are you that eager, pretty lady?"

Cleo snapped her head up. The patron was in his forties, carrying a plump frame and wearing gold-rimmed spectacles. He possessed the arrogant, entitled aura of a corrupt official.

Cleo bowed her head again in quick submission. "I am sorry, sir. I did not see where I was going."

Conrad Mercer let out a degrading sneer. "Do you think a simple apology will do? Just tell me what you want. Drop your coy tricks. I have seen more than enough of that routine in my lifetime."

He ignored her frantic attempts to back away. Conrad clamped his thick fingers around her fragile wrist. He yanked her forward and flung her onto the plush leather sofa. Cleo tumbled against the cushions, the wind knocked straight out of her lungs. The tray clattered onto the low table. Conrad did not give her a single second to recover. He threw his heavy bulk over her legs, pinning her against the leather upholstery.

Cleo propped herself onto her elbows, her breath hitching in pure terror. The jeering laughter of the affluent crowd echoed around them. None of the elites lifted a finger to help. She swallowed the mounting panic clawing at her throat. She knew the golden rule of Oblivion. She could not afford to offend a single soul in this room if she wanted to keep Corbin’s rehab funded.

A terrifying, suffocating scent cut through the stale odor of alcohol and cigars. White sandalwood cologne.

The fragrance froze the blood in Cleo’s veins. The scent was branded into her very soul, inextricably linked to the blinding surgical lights and the tearing agony of her defloration.

A deep, devilish whisper sliced through the heavy air. "Ms. Stanton. We meet again."

The metallic clack of a lighter echoed in the dim space. A small flame flickered to life. The warm glow illuminated the impossibly handsome, frost-layered face of Vaughn Lockwood. He lounged casually on the adjacent sofa, bringing a cigarette to his lips.

Cleo stared at the man who had shattered her life and handed her a fake check in return. Hatred flared hot and bright in her chest. She dug her fingernails deep into the leather cushions.

"Vaughn Lockwood." Cleo spat his name through gritted teeth.

A plume of gray smoke curled from his lips, masking his sharp features for a fleeting second. Vaughn smiled. The expression was deceptively gentle, making him appear charismatic and approachable.

"You still remember my name. It seems you are satisfied with me." Vaughn remarked, his tone dripping with dark amusement.

Conrad Mercer paused his assault. He noted the hushed, charged interaction between the terrified promoter and the ruthless CEO. His arrogant demeanor faltered.

Conrad offered a hasty, nervous apology. "Oh, so she belongs to you, Mr. Lockwood. Sorry about that."

Vaughn let out a dark chuckle. The amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by a cold, calculating malice.

"We are not close. You can take her if you want, Mr. Mercer. Do as you please."

A wave of sickening relief washed over Conrad. He turned back to Cleo with a predatory leer.

"In that case, I will make sure you have an unforgettable experience today." Conrad leaned his sweaty face closer to hers.

Cleo pressed her back against the armrest, desperation fueling her response. "I am just a promoter. I only sell drinks."

Conrad bristled at the public rejection. His face flushed an ugly shade of red. He lunged forward and pinched her delicate chin with brutal force. He jerked her head upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Just who do you think you are?" Conrad questioned, his voice thick with unadulterated arrogance.

Physical pain flared in Cleo’s jaw. The sharp ache ignited the fiery anger she had been suppressing. Her loyalty to Corbin and her sheer instinct for survival overrode her terror. She reached out and snatched a heavy, half-empty vodka bottle from the inky-black coffee table. She gripped the glass neck tightly, determined to smash it against Conrad’s smug face.

A large hand clamped around her forearm mid-air. Vaughn gripped her wrist with crushing force. He yanked her arm down, his voice hoarse with a dark warning.

"Do not ruin the fun here. Get out."

Cleo glared at Vaughn with pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Gladly, Mr. Lockwood. Thank you for your leniency."

Vaughn did not release her. A sinister, mocking smile curved his lips. He snatched the heavy vodka bottle from her white-knuckled grip.

"Do not rush to thank me. I am not done talking. Finish this bottle of liquor before you leave."

Cleo stared at the clear liquid sloshing against the glass. The devil possessed no boundaries. This man was a waking nightmare she could not escape. Knowing argument was futile, she grabbed the bottle back. She tipped the glass rim against her lips and forced the burning alcohol down her throat. The harsh liquor scorched her esophagus. A fiery agony erupted in her empty stomach. She endured the physical torment, desperate to flee his suffocating presence.

Vaughn watched her swallow the hard liquor. He closed the distance between them and casually draped a heavy arm around her trembling shoulders. He leaned in close.

"You are quite a good drinker, Ms. Stanton. It seems you are short on cash. I will pay you three hundred thousand for every bottle of liquor you consume."

The overwhelming influx of alcohol hit Cleo’s bloodstream like a freight train. The burning liquor incinerated her last shred of rational thought. Roxanne’s dire warnings evaporated from her mind. The humiliation, the fake check, the brutal loss of her virginity, and the physical assault all boiled over into blind, explosive rage.

Cleo slammed the empty bottle onto the table. Her eyes glowed red with intoxicating fury. She stood on her tiptoes. She grabbed the crisp front of Vaughn’s expensive dress shirt with both fists, hauling herself right up to his face.

"Vaughn Lockwood! You lied to me about the money! Do you know how bad you fucked me up? And now you want to mess with me again? You crazy son of a bitch!" Cleo screamed at the top of her lungs, her deafening roar echoing off the velvet walls.