The CEO Twins Fight For Me

"You're just a perfumer, a tool I can call to my bed whenever I want."

Damian's voice was cold as ice, piercing straight through my heart.

I stood in his private booth, clutching the fragrance I had carefully crafted for him, while three elite club members watched me with mocking eyes. Smoke swirled through the dimly lit booth, making every face appear blurred and unfamiliar, except for Damian's devastatingly perfect features.

"This perfume is just like you—cheap and easily replaceable."

Those words hit me like lightning, instantly transporting me back to that night three days ago.

Back then, I was naive enough to believe I was special. In the private suite on the top floor of the Elysium Club, moonlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows onto silk sheets. Damian's fingers traced my cheek, his eyes holding a tenderness I had never seen before.

"You're perfect like this..." he whispered in my ear, his voice husky and magnetic.

In that moment, I thought I heard love.

For three years, I had been nothing more than an unremarkable perfumer at the club, while he was the man every woman desired. But that night, in his arms, I felt like the most special woman in the world.

I was wrong. Dead wrong.

The next morning, harsh sunlight streamed through the windows as I groggily opened my eyes to find the other side of the bed empty. Damian was getting dressed, his movements swift and detached, as if last night's intimacy had been nothing but my imagination.

"Damian?" I called softly, my voice laced with hope and anxiety.

He didn't even turn around, simply placed cash from his wallet on the nightstand. Those bills looked particularly glaring in the morning light.

"This is your service fee," his voice was devoid of warmth. "Not bad, but that's all it was."

Service fee. I was nothing more than a one-time service to him.

"You think of me as..." My voice caught in my throat.

"Think of you as what?" He finally turned around, his gaze as cold as if I were a stranger. "Aren't you just club staff?"

He picked up his suit jacket and headed for the door without looking back.

The door slammed shut, leaving me alone on the rumpled bed, staring at those bills in stunned silence.

I refused to accept it.

For the next three days, I locked myself in my perfume workshop, frantically creating this fragrance called "Obsidian." I had to prove I wasn't like those other girls, that I truly understood him.

The top notes were fresh bergamot, reminiscent of his favorite breakfast tea. The heart notes were black pepper and cedar, representing his cold and dangerous aura. The base notes were amber and musk, deep and lasting, like my love for him.

Every note had meaning, every drop of essential oil carried three years of my secret devotion.

I practiced countless times in front of the mirror what I would say: "That night meant something special to me... This perfume was created specifically for you... I hope you understand that what we had was more than just a one-night stand..."

I thought this bespoke fragrance would prove my worth, make him reconsider my value. I was so naive.

Now I stood here, listening to him trample on my feelings with the cruelest words.

"Damian," I had said earlier, trembling as I placed the crystal bottle before him, "I created this fragrance for you. That night... we..."

"That night?" He cut me off, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You mean when I used you to blow off steam?"

The other men in the booth began exchanging glances, smirks playing at the corners of their mouths. I felt my cheeks burn instantly.

"Violet," he continued, his tone like he was addressing a foolish child, "you don't actually think sleeping together changes anything, do you?"

Then came those devastating words—tool, cheap, replaceable.

The booth erupted in laughter.

"God, she actually thought a one-night stand was love!" The blond man doubled over with laughter. "That's the funniest joke I've heard all year."

"These girls can never tell the difference between sex and emotion," the man with glasses shook his head matter-of-factly. "They think sleeping with someone will make them a princess."

"Damian, when did your taste become so... pedestrian?" the third man taunted. "Though I suppose slumming it occasionally isn't bad."

Every word was like a whip across my face. My careful creation, my three years of secret longing, my beautiful fantasies—all of it was a massive joke to them. I felt my dignity being torn apart piece by piece, then trampled underfoot.

The fragrance bottle began to slip from my sweaty palms. With a sharp crack, the crystal shattered, deep amber liquid splashing across the floor. The expensive scent instantly filled the room—three days of my heart and soul, now as broken as my dignity.

"What a waste," Damian glanced casually at the spilled perfume. "Though it was cheap goods anyway."

My vision began to blur—whether from tears or rage, I couldn't tell.

I wanted to say something in my defense, but my throat felt stuffed with cotton; I couldn't utter a single word.

"You can get out now." Damian sat back down, picking up his glass without even glancing my way. "Next time you want money, just say so. Don't play these childish games."

I turned and fled from the booth, their laughter chasing me like a demonic curse, echoing endlessly through the corridors.

Back in my perfume workshop, I completely broke down.

Like a madwoman, I swept every bottle off the shelves, the crash of breaking glass mixing with my screams. Years of painstaking work spilled across the floor, creating a pungent, chaotic blend of scents.

I knelt among the shards of glass, sobbing uncontrollably.

Tool. Cheap. Replaceable.

Those words were nailed into my heart like spikes. Glass cut my palms, blood dripping into the spilled perfume, but what was this pain compared to everything else?

Three years of secret love, one night of passion, one carefully crafted fragrance—all of it had earned me nothing but public humiliation and degradation.

"You're perfect like this"... Those tender words, those loving gazes—it had all been my own wishful thinking. From the very beginning, I was nothing more than a tool to him, a toy he could summon to his bed at will.

My tears gradually dried up, anger slowly giving way to numb exhaustion. Broken glass and scattered ingredients surrounded me, just like my shattered heart.

I staggered to my feet, ignoring the bleeding cuts on my hands.

I needed to escape. To forget. Only alcohol could help me temporarily forget those harsh laughs, forget everything about tonight.