Chapter Four

Jayden's pov

As I rode the elevator up to the club, my mind drifted to the past, to the days when I was nothing more than a dirty, hungry kid begging for scraps on the streets. I remember watching those people of high status stroll by, dressed in their fine clothes, noses in the air, like they were untouchable. Back then, I thought they were saints—clean and pure. But I know better now. You can never build empires like theirs without getting your hands dirty. You either play the game or you get played.

I learnt that lesson the hard way, first as a pickpocket and then as I clawed my way up, step by step. Now, I had become one of them—a so-called success story, proof that a beggar could become a king. But the truth is, it’s all a façade. Respect, money, power—none of it meant a damn thing. Sure, I’ve got comfort, and nobody dared to laugh at me now, but where’s the excitement? Where’s the thrill I thought would come with all this? The wealth, the respect—they’re just empty rewards, hollow as the promises I used to tell myself when I was starving on the streets.

The elevator dinged softly, pulling me out of my thoughts. I was here to make a deal with Caesar, one of the biggest figures in the city, at the Aphrodite Club.

But as the doors slid open, something unexpected caught my eye.

She was there, a girl in a red gown, her movements frantic and desperate. Even through her panic, she carried herself with a grace that didn’t fit the scene. She was beautiful, perfect even, but it was obvious—she was running from something or someone. Her eyes darted around, wild and terrified, as if death itself were breathing down her neck.

I almost ignored it, stepped out of the elevator, and walked on by.

But just as I moved, she made her move too. She lunged forward, grabbing onto my leg like it was a lifeline. Her grip was tight, her hands trembling as she clung to me, her wide eyes locking onto mine with a silent plea.

“Please, mister. Please save me. Please save me from this hell,” she sobbed, her voice trembling with desperation.

I looked down at her, disgust twisting in my gut. Desperation had a way of crawling under my skin, making me recoil. I hated it when people begged, when they grovelled at someone’s feet, clinging to them like they were their only hope.

“Let go of my leg.” My voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of venom, the kind that should have been enough to make her back off.

But she didn’t.

"Please, sir. Help me. I will do whatever you want me to if you do. I just want to get out of here.”

It was as if my words had no effect on her, like she either didn’t hear the warning in my tone or chose to ignore it. That only stoked the fire in me, with my simmering anger bubbling over.

“Get your filthy hands off me, whore!” I snapped, kicking her hand away with a force that sent her head smacking against the elevator wall.

But even then, as I tried to walk away, she grabbed my leg again, her voice a desperate plea as she continued begging for me to save her.

For a moment, I stared down at her, convinced she was weak and pathetic, relying on someone like me to fix her problems. It was another thing I despised—people who could not stand on their own two feet. But her persistence, her nerve-wracking insistence, began to gnaw at me. It was the same desperation I had seen in countless others, especially women who threw themselves at men like me, hoping to latch onto wealth and power.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady myself. When I opened them again, they were blazing with rage.

Without hesitation, I reached down and grabbed her by the neck, lifting her off the ground as her eyes widened in shock, her hands clawing at mine as she struggled to breathe.

“You don’t listen, do you?” I snarled, tightening my grip.

"I’ve dealt with countless people like you, and trust me, they always regret forcing themselves on me.”

Her voice came out in gasps, her words choked by the pressure of my hand around her throat. “Please… I’m not… forcing… I need… help… please…”

I stared at her, her words barely registering. To me, it was just another pathetic attempt to manipulate me, to get what she wanted by playing the victim. I was ready to toss her aside when I heard the sound of footsteps racing towards us.

The club’s security guards appeared, their faces a mixture of urgency and satisfaction as they approached.

“Here you are,” one of them said with a smirk, his eyes landing on her.

There was a glint in his eye, a twisted sense of pleasure in finding her like this.

He and the other guards bowed to me. “We apologise for the inconvenience, sir. She’s one of our products, but she’s trying to escape.”

It was obvious now—she wasn’t just running from trouble; she was running from them.

I figured it was probably her first night on the job. Most of the new girls tried to escape, just like she had.

I loosened my grip on her neck, and two of the guards immediately stepped in, seizing her arms and dragging her down the hallway.

The others followed close behind, but her cries echoed through the corridor, still begging me to save her.