Three days later, the "apology" came. It wasn't words. It was an invitation.

"Get dressed," Julian said, tossing a garment bag onto the bed. "We're going to the Kensington Charity Gala pre-party."

He didn't say sorry. He just bought her a dress. A black dress. Simple. Boring.

"It's a bit plain," Vivian noted, touching the fabric.

"It's elegant," Julian corrected. "You don't need to draw attention. You know how you get anxious in crowds."

He was rewriting her reality again. Painting her as the fragile, neurotic woman who needed his protection.

Vivian put on the dress. It fit perfectly, of course. He viewed her body as a mannequin for his status.

The venue was a high-end art gallery downtown. Waiters circulated with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The air buzzed with the chatter of the city's elite.

As soon as they entered, Julian dropped her hand.

"I need to say hello to the board members," he said. "Stay here. Try not to knock anything over."

He vanished into the crowd.

Vivian walked to the bar. "Dirty Martini," she ordered. "Extra olives."

She took the cold glass and wandered toward the back of the gallery, seeking a quiet corner. She found a spot behind a large, decorative Japanese screen. It offered a view of the room through the slats but hid her from sight.

She sipped her drink, the vodka burning pleasantly.

Then she heard his voice.

"Oh, come on, Julian. She's totally whipped."

It was one of his friends. Mark.

Julian laughed. "Vivian? Please. She's terrified I'll leave her. Where would she go? Back to that tiny apartment her mother lives in? She needs the Kensington name to breathe."

Vivian's hand froze. The glass was icy against her fingers.

"But the club..." Mark pressed. "I thought I saw someone looking like her car nearby."

"She was home asleep," Julian dismissed. "Women get emotional. I bought her a dress, took her out tonight. She's fine now. She knows who butters her bread."

"Julian is the best husband!" A high, chirpy voice chimed in.

Scarlett.

Vivian peered through the screen. Scarlett was there, clinging to Julian's arm again. She was wearing a white dress that looked suspiciously like a wedding gown cut short.

"You're too good to her," Scarlett cooed. "If I were your wife, I'd never yell at you."

"I know, sweetie," Julian said, patting her hand. "She's just... a placeholder. A trophy my mother picked out. A gold digger who got lucky."

Gold digger.

Something inside Vivian snapped. It wasn't a loud snap. It was the sound of a cable finally giving way under too much tension.

She stepped out from behind the screen. Her knuckles were white around the glass.

She looked at them. The urge to throw the drink in his face was overwhelming. It pulsed in her veins, hot and demanding.

But she saw Mark looking at her. She saw the other guests nearby.

If she made a scene, she was the crazy wife. She was the problem.

Vivian forced her hand to relax. She forced her face into a mask of confusion and hurt.

"Julian?" she whispered, her voice trembling perfectly.

The group went silent. Mark's eyes widened. Scarlett gasped.

Julian turned slowly. When he saw her, his arrogance faltered for a second.

"Vivian," he said, stepping away from Scarlett. "How long have you been standing there?"

"I... I just wanted to ask if you were ready to go," Vivian stammered, taking a step back. She let her heel catch on the carpet. She stumbled, the martini sloshing over the rim and splashing onto her own dress.

"Oh!" she cried out, looking down at the stain.

"God, Vivian," Julian sighed, rolling his eyes. "Can't you go five minutes without making a mess?"

Scarlett giggled, hiding her smile behind her hand.

"I'm sorry," Vivian whispered, tears welling in her eyes. Real tears of frustration, but to them, they looked like weakness. "I'm just... I'm not feeling well. The crowd..."

"Go clean yourself up," Julian snapped. "Or just go wait in the car. You're embarrassing me."

"I'll... I'll go to the car," Vivian said.

She turned and walked away, head bowed. She looked defeated.

As she walked through the gallery, she heard Julian's voice behind her.

"See? Total mess. She'd be lost without me."

Vivian walked out into the cool night air. She signaled the valet.

Once she was inside the car, the tears stopped instantly. Her expression hardened into stone.

She pulled out her phone and opened the voice memo app. She stopped the recording.

"Placeholder," she repeated to the empty car.

She wasn't just leaving him. She was going to skin him alive.

The summons came the next morning.

"Mother wants to see you," Julian said over breakfast. He was reading the paper, ignoring the fact that Vivian had slept in the guest room. "She heard about you leaving early last night."

Eleanor Kensington did not invite people. She summoned them.

The Kensington Manor was a fortress of old money and older prejudices. Vivian drove herself. When she walked into the solarium, the scene that greeted her made her stomach turn.

Eleanor was sitting in her high-backed chair, sipping tea.

And sitting on a low velvet stool beside her, pouring tea like a dutiful servant, was Scarlett.

"Vivian," Eleanor said, her voice like dry ice. "You're late."

"I was on time," Vivian said, checking her watch.

"You look tired," Scarlett chimed in, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Doesn't she look tired, Auntie Eleanor?"

Auntie?

Vivian ignored her. "You wanted to see me, Eleanor?"

"I heard you made a scene by leaving the gala early," Eleanor said. She set her cup down. "That is behavior suited for a child, not a Kensington."

"I wasn't feeling well," Vivian said, keeping her eyes lowered. "The heat... I felt faint."

"Faint?" Eleanor laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. "You have the constitution of a wet paper towel, Vivian. Your family was drowning in debt. We saved you. You owe us your strength, not your vapors."

Julian walked in then. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He looked smug. He enjoyed seeing her scolded.

"Scarlett there," Eleanor continued, gesturing to the girl, "knows how to behave. She's sweet. Submissive. Unlike you."

Scarlett beamed. "I just want everyone to be happy."

Eleanor pointed to the chess set on the table between them. It was an antique ivory set.

"Sit," Eleanor commanded. "Play a game with me. If you win, I'll forget this incident. If you lose... you will apologize to Julian on your knees."

Vivian stared at the board.

"I'll play for her!" Scarlett jumped up. "I was captain of the chess club in high school! Let me teach her a lesson, Auntie."

Eleanor smirked. "Fine. Scarlett represents the family. Vivian represents... herself."

Vivian sat down. Her movements were slow, hesitant.

"And if I win?" Vivian asked softly.

"You won't," Julian scoffed. "You don't even know how the horse moves."

"If I win," Vivian said, her voice trembling slightly, "I don't want Scarlett coming to the house anymore. It... it makes me uncomfortable."

Scarlett's eyes flickered with panic. She looked at Julian.

"Deal," Julian said. "She's bluffing."

The game began.

Scarlett played aggressively. She moved her pawns fast, trying to dominate the center. She was reckless. Arrogant.

Vivian played defensively. She let Scarlett take a pawn. Then another.

"You're losing, sister," Scarlett taunted, taking Vivian's bishop.

Vivian didn't speak. She watched the board. She watched the patterns. She saw the trap Scarlett was setting, and she saw the flaw in it.

Ten minutes in. Scarlett overextended her queen. She thought she had Vivian cornered.

"Check," Scarlett announced proudly.

Vivian moved her knight. Her hands shook as she placed the piece.

Scarlett frowned. She moved her rook.

Vivian moved her bishop. "Is... is this right?" she asked innocently.

The trap snapped shut.

"Checkmate in three," Vivian said uncertainly. "I think?"

"What?" Scarlett laughed. "No way."

Scarlett moved.

Vivian moved.

Scarlett's hand hovered over her king. She froze. There was nowhere to go. Every square was covered by Vivian's pieces. It was a slaughter.

"Checkmate," Vivian whispered. "Oh! I... I won?"

Silence descended on the solarium. Eleanor leaned forward, her eyes wide. She looked at the board, then at Vivian.

"You..." Eleanor murmured. "You never told me you could play."

Vivian stood up. She smoothed her skirt. "My father taught me a little before he died. I guess... I guess I got lucky."

She looked at Julian. He looked stunned. For the first time, he looked at her with something like confusion.

"A deal is a deal, Julian," Vivian said, twisting her hands together nervously. "Please. Just keep her away from the house."

Scarlett burst into tears. "Julian! She tricked me!"

She threw herself into Julian's arms. Julian held her, glaring at Vivian. "You just got lucky, Vivian. Don't let it go to your head."

"I won't," Vivian said, picking up her purse. "I'm just glad I won't have to worry about... visitors."

She turned and walked out. She felt lighter. Stronger. But she kept her head down until she was out the door.

But the war was not over. It had just begun.

Vivian burst out of the heavy oak doors of the manor. The sky had opened up again. Rain poured down in sheets, washing away the heat of the confrontation but doing nothing for the fire in her veins.

"Vivian! Stop!"

Julian was behind her. He caught up to her on the wet stone steps.

"You think you're so smart?" he shouted over the thunder. "Embarrassing Scarlett like that?"

"She challenged me!" Vivian spun around. "I just played the game!"

"She makes me feel like a man!" Julian screamed. "You make me feel like... like a project! You're always so perfect, so cold!"

"I was perfect for you!" Vivian yelled back.

Julian lunged forward. He didn't mean to hit her. Or maybe he did. He shoved her. Hard.

"Get out of my face!"

Vivian stepped back. Her heel caught on the slick wet stone.

She fell.

Her lower back slammed into the sharp edge of the stone balustrade.

THUD.

Pain exploded in her spine. It wasn't a crack, but a deep, sickening bruise. She gasped, curling into a ball on the wet stairs.

"Ah!" The sound was ripped from her throat.

Julian froze. He looked at his hand, then at her. For a second, he looked horrified. Then, the mask of the victim slid back into place.

"Stop acting," he scoffed. "I barely touched you."

Vivian couldn't breathe. The pain was blinding. She looked up at him through the rain.

"Help... me..."

"Get up, Vivian. You're pathetic." He turned around and walked back into the house. The doors slammed shut.

He left her.

He actually left her.

Vivian dragged herself up. Every movement was agony. Tears mixed with the rain on her face. She stumbled to her car. She had to get away. She had to get out.

She started the engine. She drove. She didn't know where she was going. Her vision was blurry from pain and tears.

The road was slick. A curve came up too fast.

She hit the brakes. The car hydroplaned.

The world spun. Trees and sky mixed in a kaleidoscope of grey and green.

CRUNCH.

The car slammed into the guardrail. The airbag deployed, punching her in the chest. Dust and smoke filled the cabin.

Vivian slumped against the wheel. Her head throbbed. Her back was on fire. But she was alive. She wiggled her toes. She could move.

"Julian..." she whispered, but no one was there.

She closed her eyes.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone was knocking on the window.

She forced her eyes open. Through the spiderwebbed glass, she saw a black umbrella. A massive black car—a Rolls-Royce—was idling behind her.

The door was wrenched open.

A man stood there. He was tall. Imposing. He wore a charcoal grey suit that cost more than her car. The rain bounced off his umbrella, but he didn't seem to care that his shoes were getting wet.

"Can you move?"

His voice was deep. Baritone. It vibrated in her chest.

Vivian nodded weakly. "My... back... it hurts, but I can move."

The man handed the umbrella to a driver who had appeared beside him. He leaned into the car.

"I'm going to help you," he said. "Hold on to me."

He didn't wait for permission. He slid his arms under her knees and behind her back.

Vivian cried out as he lifted her. The pain was excruciating. She buried her face in his chest to stifle the scream.

He smelled... incredible.

Not vanilla. Not scotch.

Cedarwood. Crisp, clean mountain air. And something sharp, like expensive ink.

He carried her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. He walked to the Rolls-Royce. The driver opened the back door.

He settled her gently onto the leather seats. The interior was warm. Safe.

Vivian looked up at him. His face was in shadow, but she saw piercing eyes. Grey eyes. Intelligent and cold.

"Thank you," she whispered. Her hand was clutching his lapel. She looked down.

There was blood on his suit. Her blood from a cut on her forehead.

"Your suit..." she mumbled.

He glanced at the stain. He didn't frown. He didn't look disgusted. He looked indifferent.

"It's just fabric," he said.

He sat next to her. "To the hospital," he ordered the driver.

"Who... who are you?" Vivian asked, her consciousness fading.

He looked at her. For a moment, the coldness in his eyes thawed.

"Alexander," he said. "Alexander Vance."

The name floated in her mind. Vance. The enemy. The rival conglomerate.

"You're... the enemy," she slurred.

The corner of his mouth twitched. A ghost of a smile.

"Rest now, Mrs. Kensington. The enemy has you."

And then, everything went black.