The VIP room in the noisy KTV was dim.

I knelt on the floor, gathering shards of broken glass, spilled alcohol soaking into the carpet.

Shallow cuts crisscrossed my fingers, each sting a reminder of the great humiliation..

Dignity was a luxury I couldn't afford in this line of work.

Blood welled from a deeper gash, staining my sleeve crimson. The pain was sharp.

“You’re making all these excuses just to avoid having a drink? Is this the service your place offers?”

I kept my head down, my apology automatic. “I'm sorry, sir.”

“Sorry doesn't cut it. That bottle cost more than your life. How do you plan to pay?”

“I can have it deducted from my wages. I'll repay every cent.”

“Your wages? What are those worth? It'd take you forever...”

“Enough.”

A colder voice cut through the sneer. “Stop bickering. Fetch the manager. Someone this clumsy is useless.”

My body froze. The apologies kept tumbling out, words I barely registered. I just mechanically stated some compensation plans.

I couldn't lose this job.

Selling drinks in a KTV wasn't respectable, but the pay was the best I could find.

A college dropout without a degree, survival in this city was hard enough without deliberate cruelty.

The man from the main seat finally stood. Polished leather shoes stopped inches from me.

Before I could look up, a foot ground down hard on my injured hand.

Agony shot up my arm, sweat beading on my forehead as I trembled.

“Sir, please,” I gasped, grabbing the hem of his trousers without daring to push. “Chuck... these hands... they were meant for piano.”

“Piano? You?” Chuck bent down, his fingers digging into my jaw as he yanked me upright. “Six years since you touched a keyboard, right? You've probably forgotten what a piano even sounds like. Still dreaming of playing on a concert stage?”

The words were a physical blow to my chest.

Six years. I’d heard about him – the benevolent entrepreneur, a world away from my reality.

No one knew his ruthlessness was the reason I’d dropped out.

Walking into that private room, I’d known escape was unlikely. I’d gone in anyway, delivering drinks, bracing for the taunts.

Without Chuck’s silent permission, none of this would be happening.

Since being forced out of the Conservatory six years ago, I’d scraped by on odd jobs. My parents had cast me aside; only my frail grandmother remained. Her worsening health demanded expensive medication.

For her sake, I couldn’t fight Chuck.

“I deeply apologize for breaking your bottle,” I said, forcing a smile, meeting his gaze with a playful look. ”As long as you don't have me fired, I'll make it up to you. Any way you want.”

I let my voice drop slightly. “Sleeping with you included. You remember how good I was, Chuck. Six years ago.”

Crack!

My head snapped sideways, skin stinging.

Amy's newly adorned nails, studded with sharp gems, had raked my cheek.

“Beth Scott! Trying to seduce my fiancé?” she shrieked.

“Didn't you say any compensation?” Amy said. “Then get on your knees and kowtow. Apologize properly. That expensive liquor? A treat for you. Lick it all up. Not a drop wasted.”

I kept my eyes locked on Chuck, waiting for his command.

He slid an arm around Amy, his gaze icy. “You heard her. Kowtow.”

“Yes, Mr. Carter.” I sank back to the floor, forehead hitting the carpet. Thud. Once. Thud. Twice.

Pain flared initially, then blurred into numbness as blood trickled into my eyes.

The apologies became a robotic chant with each impact.

Since leaving school, I'd learned a brutal truth: dignity without money is a weight that only drags you down when you're fighting to keep someone alive.

I lowered my head towards the spilled liquor.

“Enough. This is tedious.” Chuck shoved me away with his foot. “Get out.”

Relief washed over me. I scrambled up and fled to the staff room to tend to my wounds.

My fingers were a mess: tiny cuts crisscrossed the skin, and there were deeper gashes too—one as long as my index finger, still bleeding freely.

As I wrapped the gauze, the door opened. The sharp click of expensive shoes announced Chuck.

“Life hasn't treated you kindly these past few years,” he remarked, his gaze sweeping over me. ”No progress at all. Still so easily provoked.”

“Mr. Carter, I’ve already apologized. Please, have mercy. Let it go.”

“Your grandmother is sick. Needs money, I hear?”

My head snapped up, eyes blazing.

“I have nothing left! What more do you want? Chuck, if you dare touch my grandmother, I swear I'll make you pay, whatever it costs!”

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “One minute a cowering little rabbit, the next a hissing wildcat? Much better this way, though.”

His tone shifted slightly. “I can get her the best specialists. The top ward in the hospital.”

“What's the price?”

His fingers tapped a rhythm on the doorframe, like a countdown.

“Be my personal assistant. For one year. Your schedule is mine to command. That includes late-night drinking parties.” As he lifted his eyes, the frost in their depths seemed to soften a little—yet it was more like honey laced with poison.

I clenched my bandaged hand, the pressure sending fresh pain through the wounds. But the image of the hospital bills… it was a burning brand on my mind.

The attending doctor said that if we put it off any longer, even specialized targeted drugs won't be able to stop the spread of cancer cells.

“I have one condition,” I said, staring at the polished tip of his shoe. “The hospital arrangements happen immediately. I see her admitted to the VIP suite. I see the doctors' credentials.”

“Agreed.”

The black Bentley glided through neon-lit streets. Sitting in the passenger seat, the familiar scent of cedarwood from the leather assaulted me.

He’d used it six years ago. Back then, it smelled clean, crisp. Now it felt like needles sheathed in ice pricking my lungs.

“Beth, how miserably have you been scraping by these past six years?” he broke the silence, his eyes flicking to my worn jeans, “working at a KTV… was it worth it? For that pittance?”

I stared at the passing streetlights, my voice flat. “What of it? At least the money I earned was clean.”

He slammed on the brakes. Inertia threw me against the dashboard.

A red mark bloomed on my forehead, but I made no sound, just slowly righted myself.

Chuck’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Clean? When you climbed into my bed back then, did you think about 'clean'?”

“You said you loved me,” I turned, looking directly at him for the first time. “You said we'd get engaged after graduation. You tattooed your name on my shoulder blade, saying it would make me yours forever.”

The area where the tattoo was still burned, as if countless needles were pricking it.

The faded letters were etched into my bone, a constant reminder of his breath warm on my neck as he whispered, “Beth, now we're bound forever.”

“Shut up!” he suddenly flew into a rage, as if his sore spot had been touched.

“You were just a pawn in my revenge! Don't flatter yourself.”

Revenge. That word again.

Whispers from others had painted the picture.

His childhood sweetheart Amy, jealous I’d won the gold medal at the International Piano Competition, had pushed me down a flight of stairs backstage.

My right hand snapped.

Amy had lied, claiming I stole her music and attacked her.

With no proof, I was defenseless.

Chuck believed her. So he pursued me, seduced me, then shattered me at my peak with that video.

“Your revenge was thorough,” I laughed, a brittle sound as tears fell unbidden. “Chuck, you broke my hands, my future, my family. Seeing me kneel like a dog now… is it satisfying?”

He flinched, his throat working. Finally, he restarted the car, his voice glacial.

“We're at the hospital.”

Chuck moved fast. By the time I arrived, Grandma was already settled in a new suite.

A nurse was changing her IV bag.

Even in sleep, her brow was furrowed, her hand a map of needle marks. I smoothed the worry lines, tears threatening again.

“Miss Scott,” Chuck's assistant appeared, holding documents, “this is the top oncology team in the country. They'll oversee her treatment plan. Mr. Carter has covered all expenses. Please sign here.”

I took the pen. The wound on my fingertip stung sharply from being rubbed by the paper.

Signing my name felt like shattering something vital, burying the last shreds of my dignity alongside it.

“Report to the top floor of Carter Corporation at nine AM tomorrow,” Chuck commanded from the doorway. ”Don't be late.”

As he turned to leave, my phone buzzed. A message from Amy: a photo of me at the Conservatory's freshman welcome party six years ago, in a white gown at the piano, the tattoo just visible on my shoulder blade.

The caption: “Usurper. Know your place.”

I deleted it, transferred the monthly payment to Grandma's nurse.

Dawn was breaking as I left the hospital. Passing a 24-hour convenience store, I caught my reflection in the glass door. The fading bruise on my cheekbone, the thin scab on my forehead.

Six years ago, I never could have imagined ending up in such a state.

Back then, I was the prodigy of the conservatory. When my fingers danced across the piano keys, even the sunlight seemed willing to linger just for me.

But now, these hands are only good for wiping tables, carrying drinks, and even kneeling to kowtow on the ground.

My phone rang. It was the doctor. I hurried to answer it, terrified of hearing bad news.

“Miss Scott? Good news,” his voice held relief. “We've received a shipment of the targeted medication. It's ideal for your grandmother's case.”

My heart leaped. “Truly?”

“Yes.”

I stood frozen on the bustling street, tears welling.

I knew without Chuck, that medication would have remained a dream. He ground me into the dirt, then offered a candy.

I wiped away my tears and walked into Carter Corporation.

I followed the secretary into the elevator. As I watched the numbers climb higher and higher, my heart rose to my throat.

I had no idea what was waiting for me, but it was certainly not going to be an easy job.

His office was vast, the city sprawled beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Chuck sat behind an imposing desk, impeccably suited, gold-rimmed glasses lending an air of quiet and cold intellect.

If it weren’t for what he did at the KTV last night, anyone would be fooled by this appearance of his.

“Your access card,” he said without looking up from his files. “Your duties are simple: refreshments, document organization, available whenever I require you.”

I picked up the card. The photo was a grainy still from the KTV security feed – pale, hollow-eyed. The title: Personal Assistant.

“Sir,” I asked, forcing a smile, “does 'available' include sleeping with you? If needed, I'm at your service. You did compliment my skills six years ago.”

He slammed a file shut, his eyes glacial behind the lenses. “Beth Scott, drop the act. Here, compliance is your only path to survival.”

“Yes, Mr. Carter.” I bowed.

He ignored me, absorbed in his screen. I stood like furniture until noon when he finally stood, grabbing his jacket. “Come with me.”