Chapter 2 Becoming Bernard's Savior

On the other end of the phone, Lainey Whitehead was ecstatic, her voice trembling with excitement. "Bernard?" Lilith stared at the ring on the table, suddenly recalling it was the very ring she had seen in a photo of Bernard at a socialite gathering. The Jacobson family's heirloom diamond ring. Remembering Vivian's incident at the hospital yesterday, Lilith instantly realized: Vivian had saved Bernard Jacobson! And because Vivian had given *her* name at the hospital, Bernard now believed *she* was the one who had rescued him. She had unexpectedly become the savior of Westmoor's most powerful heir! This was even more exhilarating than winning the lottery. "Mom, I've got something on. I'll call you back." Suppressing her excitement, Lilith quietly slipped the ring from the table when Vivian wasn't looking. She marched up to her and declared firmly, "If you ever do something like this again, I'll make sure your adoptive parents are the ones being buried." She stormed off in anger. Vivian had returned at dawn hoping to catch a few hours' sleep, but ended up oversleeping. She had no patience to deal with Lilith right now. Grabbing a mask to cover her face, she rushed straight to the hospital to find that man. One hundred million dollars in reward. That was payment she had earned with her life. But who could have known—when she arrived and inquired, the nurse said the man had woken up in the middle of the night and simply left. He hadn't left any contact information at all. "Liar! You bastard!" Vivian flew into a rage, furious. "Those five thousand dollars were my food money for two months!" Of course. A man's words were nothing but lies. She had lost five thousand dollars outright, and because the delivery was missed, the app had docked over a hundred dollars in penalties. She was only doing part-time delivery work, and now all the earnings from her two days off were gone—lost to the platform. Vivian's heart ached. The world was cruel. She was still too young. Over the next few days, she threw herself into her job—working long shifts, then rushing to deliver orders after work, all while bringing meals to her adoptive parents at the hospital. At Nightshade Club, Vivian, in her security uniform, sat with her fellow guards in the surveillance room, complaining: "If I hadn't saved that ungrateful bastard, how could I be surviving on two meals a day this whole week? I've even lost weight." After the accident, her adoptive father remained unconscious, and her mother stayed by his side at the hospital every day. Though the Whiteheads were covering medical expenses, Vivian still faced significant daily living costs. She had used her last $5,000 to pay for that man's surgery—her finances were now stretched to the limit. "Vivi, you keep talking about this guy, but do you even know his name or what he looks like?" Peter Harmon asked. Vivian shook her head. "I remember his face, but he was unconscious at the time—how would I know his name… Wait, wait, wait—see that? See him?" She suddenly pointed at the surveillance monitor. "That's him! That's the guy!" She slammed the table and growled, "You bastard, I've finally found you!" Then she stood up and strode out. "Vivi, wait!" Peter grabbed her wrist, staring incredulously at the figure on the screen. "Are you sure it's him?" "I'd recognize that dog even if he turned to ash." As Vivian turned to leave, Peter jumped up and blocked her path. "Vivi, stay calm. That's Bernard Jacobson—the heir to the Jacobson family, one of Westmoor's Four Great Clans. He's cold, ruthless, and has blood on his hands." "Bernard Jacobson?" Vivian sucked in a sharp breath. Her club was Westmoor's premier luxury venue, frequented by the city's elite, so she was no stranger to the name Bernard Jacobson. What kind of man was he? If he wanted to repay a debt, all it would take was a word. If he hadn't come looking, it meant he didn't want to pay. Vivi—your life comes first. It's only five thousand dollars. Let's just consider it tossed to a dog." "I…" Vivian was momentarily speechless. Peter's words made sense. But still—she couldn't let it go. After leaving the surveillance room and asking around, she learned Bernard was in Room 908. Vivian waited like a hunter. It wasn't until 1 a.m. that she saw Bernard, dressed in a black shirt, step out of the room and into the elevator. She quickly followed in. Nightshade Club had eight floors of bar below, and hotel suites above. In the elevator, Vivian stole a glance at Bernard, who stood half a head taller than her. He reeked of alcohol. His strikingly handsome face was flushed with an unnatural redness, and his long fingers occasionally tugged at his tie, as if struggling with the heat of intoxication. "Which floor?" Suddenly, the man's cold voice cut in. Vivian glanced at the lit number on the panel. "Thirty-eighth floor." Bernard said nothing. Ding— The elevator doors opened on the 38th floor. The man stepped out. She followed closely behind. But after a few steps, Bernard suddenly stopped. Vivian, caught off guard, bumped straight into his back. "Oops, sorry… Mmmph…" Before her apology could finish, the man whirled around, his large hand clamping around her throat, his voice icy: "Talk. Who exactly are you?" "Pain…" Choking, Vivian's brain starved for oxygen as she slapped at Bernard's hand. "Let go… I can't… breathe…" Hearing her voice, Bernard frowned slightly and yanked off her cap. "You're a woman?" Because Vivian worked at the club, she had disguised her voice as male to avoid harassment, and her face was also subtly made up. Only the manager and the security team knew she was female. "Y-yes… yes…" "Who sent you?" "I… I just wanted to…" Before Vivian could finish, Bernard cut her off. "Want to be my woman?" He'd noticed this little guard acting suspiciously from the start. And tonight's drink had definitely been spiked. So it was the same old game—another woman drugging him, trying to get into his bed. Vivian was nearly choking to death. You damn bastard—rewarding kindness with cruelty! She choked out, "What…the…" Before she could utter "hell," the man released her throat. Vivian collapsed to the floor, her body weak, hands braced on the ground as she gasped and coughed violently. Only then did she realize—the entire 38th floor was private residence. Silver-gray, cool-toned interior design, exuding luxury and elegance. So Bernard had known all along that something was off about her.