In the lively heart of London, there was a nightclub called Rebel. Every evening, as the city lights flickered on, Rebel buzzed with energy and excitement. Neon signs and flashing colors filled the room, creating an atmosphere of indulgence and thrill.

In the center of the dance floor stood a raised platform, surrounded by large speakers. A small railing defined the space where a group of young men, dressed in trendy streetwear, were setting up instruments that perfectly matched the club's hip-hop vibe. Just past six in the evening, the nightclub was bustling with people of all ages, eagerly awaiting the pulse of music to fill the air. Bartenders moved deftly through the crowd, serving glasses of chilled gin and tonic to those looking to escape reality for a little while. If a patron was generous, a good tip was guaranteed to find its way into their pocket.

The beat of the night began with a powerful "boom" as the drummer's sticks hit the first notes. As various instruments joined in, people on the dance floor moved wildly, shaking their heads to the rhythm, momentarily leaving their worries behind.

It was unclear how much time had passed when the DJ's booming music filled every corner of the club. Multicolored lights flickered erratically as three girls took their place on the platform. Dressed in black, revealing outfits, they danced provocatively to the rhythm of a pole dance, drawing every eye in the room.

In the spotlight, the central dancer captured everyone's attention. Her smoky eye makeup was thick, her lips a bold crimson, and her captivating eyes held the room spellbound. Her fair skin glowed under the lights, and her graceful movements mesmerized the audience. Her black strapless top offered glimpses of her skin, and her tiny black shorts rode up with every bend, barely preserving her modesty. A shining jewel adorned her navel like a rose petal, and oversized earrings dangled from her ears. Her auburn hair was styled high in a sleek ponytail, adorned with small black and white flowers.

As she spun and swayed, her long legs wrapped seductively around the polished pole. Her fingers glided over her legs, waist, and chest, changing her gestures fluidly. A faintly sad smile graced her beautiful face, and even the brightest lights could not overshadow the sorrow in her eyes. Her seductive dance was performed with an unexpected elegance, captivating the club’s audience.

All the men in the room were transfixed, unable to tear their gazes away from the fiery performance. A group of middle-aged men waved a server over with a flash of cash, whispering with lewd intent, their eyes greedily fixed on the dancer with frog-like lust.

The dance concluded, sweat glistening on her neck. Her smile faded, her eyes now wary, exuding a distant aura as she wrapped her arms around herself protectively. She ignored the men whistling for her attention, dodging their advances as she retreated to an unnoticed corner. Quickly, she slipped on a trench coat to cover herself, wiping away the remains of her makeup with a damp cloth, feeling repelled by her own reflection.

“Nina, someone would like you to join them for a drink,” a server shouted over the pounding DJ music, his voice barely reaching her ears. She shouted back, “What is it?” He pointed to a dimly lit corner where a group of older men gestured suggestively. Disgust twisted her stomach. She yelled back, “Tell them I don’t do drinks!”

Soon after, the server approached again, this time holding a fan of cash. “They said if you join them, this is your tip. Please them, and there could be more.” Nina stared at the money, conflicted but resolute. Though she desperately needed cash, she wouldn’t compromise her dignity.

“Sorry, I don’t do drinks,” she repeated, placing the cash on the table, her eyes lowered in disappointed refusal. Just as she turned to leave, a grubby hand clamped onto her wrist, fingers slithering over her skin as a man coaxed, “Come on, darling. Keep us company. How hard can it be for someone who dances like that?”

Another chimed in, pushing a gin and tonic toward her, saying, “You’re here to have fun, right? Just down this gin and tonic, and the money’s yours,” as his hand attempted to tuck the cash where it shouldn’t be.

Nina’s face hardened, pulling away from his grasp. “I said no. I don’t do drinks!” she asserted, her gaze icy. Her sudden defiance stunned the group of men momentarily. Then one chuckled, “Oh, playing hard to get, are we? I like this one!”

“Back off, she’s mine tonight,” another contested, draping an arm over her shoulder. Her complexion turned ashen, and she bit her lip, shrugging him off. As she turned to leave, she was blocked by a group of streetwise thugs, all eager hands, which she managed to dodge or swat away.

“Boss, she's called Nina, hasn't been at Rebel long, but her dancing is the hottest, the most entrancing,” a stocky man, eager to curry favor, offered a cigarette to a blonde thug, motioning toward Nina. The thug took a drag, reaching for her. “Name your price, you’re spending tonight with me.”

Nina slapped his hand away, retreating into the crowd only to stumble back into the leering older men. They laughed deeply, “Young men got no game. Leave it to us seasoned folk, huh!”

“Get lost!” She pushed past them, her voice rising in desperation. “I told you, I don’t drink with strangers. Leave me alone!”

“Oh, feisty!” The blonde thug smirked, tossing his cigarette to the floor and crushing it under his heel. “Get her out of here. I want to see what she’s got,” he barked at his lackeys.

“Yeah, boss! Show us how it’s done!” cheered the goons as they smacked their hands together. The middle-aged group protested, “Hey, show some respect for your elders! There are rules, you know!”

“Shut it, old man,” the blonde thug sneered, swinging a punch that connected with a middle-aged man’s nose, blood spraying in a crimson arc. The victim cursed and fought back, and chaos erupted in Rebel.

Nina seized the opportunity to escape, but a burly man hauled her over his shoulder. Despite her kicking and biting, his bulk absorbed the blows.

“Put me down! Let me go!” Desperate, she fought, knowing full well what awaited if she didn’t get away. She clawed at his head, hoping to tear hair from scalp, but finally, he flung her to the floor.

The impact left her breathless, pain shooting through her body. She struggled to stand, her face pale, but anger replaced fear as she hurled every object within reach at her pursuers.

Rebel devolved into chaos, the patrons more eager to watch than to help, some even joining the melee. The club manager, his face green with worry over damages, called security to break it up. He couldn’t afford such a mess.

Amidst the fracas, Nina was captured again by the blonde thug, who yanked her up by her hair, dragging her outside despite her protests. “You filthy brat, dare to hit my guy? You’re gonna regret this,” he spat.

“I didn’t mean to hit him,” she pleaded, fear cracking her icy facade. “Please, let me go. I’ll call the police!” Her desperation made her cling to his shirt, hoping he’d find her too much trouble to deal with and leave her on the street.

Instead, her tears seemed to ignite his lust. The thug smiled crudely, gripping her arm, aiming for her lips.

Panic seized Nina. She struck out, her hand meeting his face with a resounding slap. Humiliated in front of his crew, his rage flared. “Strip her! I want her now!”

The kick to her stomach sent her sprawling, blood trickling from her mouth. She clutched her abdomen, slick with sweat. She hadn’t expected her life to spiral here, on the unforgiving pavement with indifferent passersby.

She bit her lip, the iron tang of blood filling her mouth. Her hands fended off insistent fingers, her voice rising above the fray: “Get your hands off me! Someone, please help me!”

The remnants of the dress lay scattered on the gritty pavement. Nana shut her eyes, repeating to herself that there was no one to come to her aid. She knew the risks of venturing into such a tumultuous place, didn't she?

A black BMW glided to a stop beneath the streetlight. The driver turned his gaze toward the woman in distress among the crowd and, after a pause, turned back toward the rear seat and asked with quiet urgency, "Mr. Hamilton, what should we do?"

In the dimly lit back seat sat a man in his fifties, his neatly cut hair just beginning to turn gray. He opened his weary eyes briefly before shutting them again. "Bring her to me."

"Yes, sir," the driver replied, huffing in resignation as he made his way toward the rabble.

"Stop!" His voice sliced through the noise, leaving everyone startled. A blond man eyed him skeptically, believing his slender frame posed no threat. "Who do you think you are, butting into my business?" he snapped.

The driver remained calm, gesturing toward Nana in the crowd, and in a measured tone asked, "Could you let her go?"

The blond man paused, glancing back at Nana. He chuckled, assuming this was all a ridiculous joke. The driver, unwavering, stepped forward to guide Nana away, but the blond man stopped laughing and commanded his friends, "Bring that woman over here. Looks like she's in demand today."

Nana searched the driver's face for answers, but he wouldn't meet her gaze. She turned her focus to the car, nearly obscured in darkness. The figure inside made her heart burn with rage. Clenching her teeth, she shouted at the driver, "I don't need your help. Leave me alone!"

"Miss," he called, glancing back at the black car, "Mr. Hamilton wants to talk with you."

Talk? Nana scoffed, averting her gaze from the car. She draped her arm casually over the blond man's shoulder, leaning into him with a sweet, playful voice. "How about we go somewhere... quieter?"

"S-sure..." The blond man was captivated, his eyes roaming over her low-cut top, swallowing hard as he reached toward her neckline.

"How about ten thousand dollars?" The driver sighed, uncertain how else to manage the situation.

"What? Ten thousand..." The blond man echoed, pondering the offer, "Ten thousand dollars?"

"Yes, cash," the driver affirmed, believing there was nothing money couldn’t resolve.

"Ten thousand, huh?"

"Yes, ten thousand."

The blond man was stunned, his comrades huddling to estimate its worth. He tightened his grip on Nana's wrist and sneered, "You think ten grand fixes this? Do you even know who I am?"

Seems money had its boundaries. The driver hadn't anticipated such greed. "How much do you want, then?"

"Look at her. She's worth at least a hundred thousand. Out of respect, how about ninety-nine thousand nine hundred dollars? Then she's yours."

"Please, wait."

The driver felt a bit relieved, fearing the demand might be higher. He returned to the black car, relaying the situation to the man inside.

The blond man leaned in, watching the driver nod towards the car repeatedly, glancing occasionally his way. Worried the driver might backtrack, he threatened, "Not a dime less, or she's going to the club with me!"

Nana attempted to free herself from his grip, ready to escape while unnoticed. But he knew she was his golden goose and held firm. His piercing look made her retreat.

Once done reporting, the driver collected a dark bag from the car, took out bundles of hundred-dollar bills, counted them, and handed them over. "Can I take her now?" he asked.

The blond man was dazzled by the money. His interest in Nana evaporated as he eagerly gathered the cash, wrapping it in his worn shirt. "Alright, she's yours," he chuckled. "Let's party, guys—drinks on me!"

The crowd dispersed, leaving Nana relieved but silent as she turned to go. The driver blocked her path. "Miss, Mr. Hamilton is waiting."

"Whoever Mr. Hamilton is, that's your problem. Thanks for helping, but I’ll repay you."

No one noticed the deep sadness in her eyes, like a butterfly lost in the night.

"You don't need to repay. Just talk to him, okay?"

"I told you, I don't know him. Let me go, or I’ll call the police!" Nana was close to breaking down. Since his sudden arrival, her blood felt like it might burst from her veins, staining the street with bitter tears.

"Emmie, that’s enough!"

The commanding voice cut the tension. Nana and the driver turned to see the car door open. Mr. Hamilton emerged, with gray at his temples and years etched into his forehead. His expression was stern. Nana straightened, defiantly. "Who are you to lecture me?"

"I’m your father! Just look at yourself. Your mother would be devastated," Mr. Hamilton approached, seeing her disheveled state. He addressed the driver, "Find her something decent nearby."

The driver nodded, smiling at Nana. "I'll be back soon."

Nana met Mr. Hamilton’s gaze coldly. It was the first time he seemed concerned, and she didn’t buy it. "What's your true motive here?"

Mr. Hamilton eyed the nightclub sign disdainfully. "I want you to marry the eldest son of the Thomas family."

"The Thomas family?" Nana sneered. Thomas Corp was the city’s business titan, with firms clamoring for ties. She knew of Martin Thomas’s two sons. The elder, Hunter Thomas, returned from abroad two years ago, steering the company with global strategies, gaining the board's support. Hunter was evidently heir apparent.

The younger son, Nana only knew by name—Finley Thomas, nothing more.

No wonder Hamilton wanted the alliance. But why her? Why not his treasured daughter?

"If you marry him, you won’t end up in places like this. Plus, your mother's medical bills are covered," Hamilton pressed, convinced she wouldn’t turn it down.

"Why not have Kairi marry Hunter Thomas?"

The Hamilton daughter was far superior. Nana voiced her confusion—surely Hamilton would save the best for Kairi.

Hearing her name, Hamilton’s face softened. "Kairi isn’t interested in Hunter. Marrying Thomas Corp's heir is a good opportunity for you, Emmie. Think it over."

Nana was her stage name at the dance club, but her real name was Emmie Stewart—a name with a touch of melancholic beauty, given to her by her mother, Fiona Stewart.

Fiona was a woman caught in a tragic love, hopelessly attached to a man who would never reciprocate. From a young age, Emmie understood she was the product of a reckless night between Fiona and Jack Hamilton. Fiona had cherished Emmie's birth, naively believing Jack would do the right thing and marry her.

But Fiona was mistaken. Jack barely remembered her; how could he promise a lifetime together? Besides, he was already set to marry the daughter of a wealthy business tycoon, who was pregnant. Meanwhile, Fiona faded into a forgotten memory.

Despite facing scorn from friends and family, Fiona chose to keep the baby, seeing Emmie as a unique gift from the man she loved. In Emmie's memories, Fiona adored romantic tales filled with passion and heartache. Living in her own world of feelings, she chose the name "Emmie" for her daughter.

A year ago, a car accident left Fiona in a tragic state. Doctors said even if she survived, she'd remain in a vegetative state. Fiona's life savings were depleted in just a month of medical expenses, leaving Emmie, freshly out of college, to carry the weight alone.

Watching her mother lie motionless, Emmie thought sadly that Fiona could finally live in her dreams, eternally with the man she loved. Emmie tried every possible way to raise the funds but couldn't gather enough for the medical bills quickly, forcing her to work at a dance club. She was no stranger to pole dancing, having learned it during college and even winning a competition, earning a thousand dollars. Nana was a temporary alias; only with that name could she relax and dance.

She glanced at the clock on the wall—it was late, yet sleep escaped her. Staring at a familiar number on her phone, her heart raced. Ignoring the time, Emmie finally called Liam. Hearing his tired voice, she wanted to hang up, but a sweet voice in the background asked, "Liam, who's on the phone?"

Liam's irritated voice followed, "Hello? Who's calling? It's the middle of the night!"

Emmie froze in disbelief; had Liam really forgotten her so quickly? Could someone who once showed genuine affection become so cold?

"It's me, Liam. Where are you?" Emmie tried to keep her voice steady, but to Liam, it sounded sharp. His sleepy eyes widened as he scrambled out of bed and rushed to the bathroom, clearing his throat before saying, "Emmie, I'm at home. Why are you up so late?"

"Home? But I heard a woman's voice."

"You must be mistaken. You know you're the only one I care about," Liam reassured her.

"If you love me, would you do anything for me?" Emmie raised her voice, bitterly laughing at how easily love could be professed.

Thinking Emmie was upset, Liam tried to soothe her, "Of course, whatever makes you happy, Emmie."

Anything? Emmie wanted to laugh at a man who could speak such grand words while being with another woman. How could she have been so blind?

"Go to hell! You're all liars!" Without giving Liam a chance to respond, Emmie tossed her phone aside, curling up and sobbing. From the still-connected phone, she could hear Liam's angry words: "Crazy woman, delusional, causing drama in the middle of the night. Damn, so frustrating!" This was the man Emmie had genuinely cared for. What had she done to deserve this?

As dawn broke, Emmie lay awake, staring at the ceiling, recalling Jack Hamilton's words from the previous night. When he mentioned that Kaitlin didn't like Finley, it sparked anger in her, leading her to declare she wouldn't marry Finley.

Jack seemed to read her thoughts, calmly saying, "Your boyfriend, Liam, tried to blackmail me for a hundred thousand dollars, saying he'd expose everything about us if I refused."

Jack's words hit Emmie hard, making her stagger. "How could he?" Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Why not? Between love and money, what do you think most people would choose?" Jack sneered as he described how security escorted Liam out when he attempted extortion, warning of severe consequences if he tarnished Jack's reputation.

Emmie didn't respond, instead looking at Jack and asking, "What if I refuse to marry?"

"Then your mother’s medical care will stop," Jack replied coldly.

Furious, Emmie was horrified at Jack's cruelty in using her mother as leverage. "What did my mom ever do wrong? She only loved you more than anything, and you were always so heartless. Now you want to use me, the daughter you never wanted, to fulfill your demands?"

Jack ignored her, stepping into his car. His driver, Mr. Williams, handed Emmie a bag, gently advising, "Miss, maybe you should agree for now. I'll check on your mother this afternoon. The medical costs are enormous, more than you can handle alone."

Staring at the bag for a long time, Emmie suddenly jumped out of bed. Mr. Williams was right; her mother was the most important person to her. She could earn money, but gathering enough for medical expenses quickly was impossible. The hospital wouldn't wait for her to earn it slowly.

With that realization, she picked up her phone and called Jack. "I'll marry Finley, but only if my mother receives the best care."

After hanging up, Jack set down his pen, satisfied that everything was progressing as planned. Once Emmie married Finley, his alliance with Martin Thomas would be solidified; the Thomas family wouldn't stand by if the Hamiltons needed assistance.

Jack called Martin Thomas, asking if Finley had time to meet Emmie later, and Martin agreed readily. He understood Jack’s intentions and had his reasons for supporting the alliance.

In the sunlit Victorian-style veranda of the Thomas family home, a man in a white shirt lounged on a deck chair, his shirt open to reveal bronze-toned muscles beneath. His features were refined, exuding a mature aura.

This was Finley Thomas, the eldest son of the Thomas family. Upon receiving the call from his father, Martin, his heart raced. He had heard of Jack Hamilton's illegitimate daughter, never expecting that the woman he was to marry would be Emmie Stewart.

"Never thought you'd be Jack Hamilton's daughter."

He couldn't forget her defiant yet beautiful face, those proud eyes that seemed to have witnessed the world's cruelty, making her unforgettable after just one meeting.

"What are you daydreaming about?" A voice interrupted his thoughts.

In the shadow of the sliding doors stood what could only be described as a devilishly handsome figure—Finley’s younger brother, Martin Thomas's other son. His ink-black hair against pale skin, eyes glinting with unreadable emotions, and features so perfectly sculpted they seemed crafted by a master.