Past midnight, in the lavish master bedroom, Vivienne Mercer was sleeping drowsily on the big European-style bed.

At first, she only felt hotter and hotter all over, like something heavy was pressing down on her chest, making it harder to breathe with every second.

She jolted awake in shock. In the dark, she could actually make out a man looming over her, pinning her beneath him.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, solidly built. The weight of him locked her in place so completely she could barely move.

"Ah—who... who are you?" Vivienne cried out in fear, only to realize both her wrists had already been forced above her head and trapped in his grip.

But the man on top of her didn't budge an inch. One large hand clamped around her slim waist like iron.

Vivienne had meant to shout, to resist, to fight him off, but when the sound left her lips, it came out broken and shamefully soft.

She wanted to push the man off her, yet somewhere deep down, her body reacted in a way that made her feel even more helpless, as if it were asking for more.

The man above her gave her no time to hesitate. Vivienne was like a lone boat caught in a storm, dragged straight into crashing wind and rain with no way out.

Why? Why did this have to happen to her?

Her husband was away on a business trip and had not come home for nearly half a year.

Just yesterday, she had finally heard from her in-laws that he would be back this week.

She had been so happy, secretly counting the days, looking forward to that small reunion after such a long separation, thinking she might finally get a little warmth and happiness.

And then this nightmare happened.

Fine. Let it be this way. She only prayed the man on top of her would finish soon so she could get out of this torture a little faster.

But the man seemed to sense her passive resistance. Almost the next second, he changed the way he teased and pressed at her, as if deliberately messing with her last thread of control.

Vivienne genuinely felt like dying.

This man was seriously awful.

And the worst part? Her body was absurdly, humiliatingly responsive.

Damn it.

She had no idea how much time passed after that.

Vivienne Mercer felt the room spinning, her head already a total mess, like her thoughts had been stirred into mud.

She should call for help. She should scream, right now.

If she yelled, the maids and the bodyguards in the house would definitely come rushing in.

But she couldn’t.

She couldn’t afford that kind of disgrace.

If word got out that the young mistress of the Mercer family had been violated on her own bed, in her own home, it would be a complete humiliation. No way to cover it, no way to wash it clean.

And who knew if the servants would even believe her? Maybe they’d gossip behind her back. Maybe it would somehow reach her husband while he was away on business, and he’d think she had cheated on him.

The hatred in Vivienne’s chest burned hotter and hotter. Since she couldn’t fight him off, then the only thing she could do was force herself to endure it—force herself to act like she could take it.