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.

Hospital lights were offensive. They were too bright, too white, too revealing.

Vivian woke up to the smell of antiseptic. She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in her lower back pinned her down.

"Careful," a nurse said, rushing over. "You have severe bruising and a minor concussion. You need to stay still."

"Who brought me here?" Vivian croaked. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

"A Mr. Vance," the nurse said, checking her chart. "He paid for a private suite. He left about an hour ago."

Vance. It hadn't been a dream. The enemy had saved her.

The door banged open.

Julian walked in. He was holding a bouquet of white lilies. Expensive, elegant lilies.

He had forgotten, or never cared to remember, that lilies made her sneeze. They were the default "apology flower" his assistant ordered.

"You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?" he said, tossing the flowers onto the bedside table.

Vivian stared at him. "You pushed me."

"I didn't push you," Julian said instantly. "You slipped. Don't rewrite history, Vivian. It makes you sound crazy."

Gaslighting. It was his second language.

"Why are you here, Julian?"

"To take you home, obviously. Mom is furious. The police called the house about the car. It looks bad for the family."

"The family," Vivian repeated bitterly. "Always the family."

Julian checked his phone, ignoring her pain. "I have a meeting in an hour. Can you walk?"

"I can walk," Vivian said coldly.

She discharged herself against medical advice. The drive home was silent. When they got to the estate, Julian threw his jacket—a grey bespoke suit—onto the sofa.

"I have a call," he said, heading to his study.

Vivian stood in the living room. She looked at the jacket. The events of the last few days crashed over her. The betrayal. The humiliation. The push.

She waited until the study door closed.

She walked to the kitchen and opened the junk drawer. She pulled out the heavy-duty fabric shears.

She walked back to the sofa.

She picked up the jacket. It smelled of Midnight Rose. Scarlett had been hugging him.

Snip.

The sound was satisfying. The sharp blades sliced through the Italian wool.

Snip. Riiiiiip.

She cut the sleeves off. She cut the collar. She stabbed the scissors through the back, right where the label was.

She shredded it. She turned the five-thousand-dollar garment into confetti.

She gathered the pieces and walked to the garage. She opened the industrial trash compactor they used for estate waste.

She threw the scraps in.

She pressed the green button.

Whirrrr. CRUNCH.

The machine groaned as it crushed the fabric into a dense, unrecognizable cube.

Vivian went upstairs and climbed into bed. When Julian came to bed hours later, he didn't notice the missing suit. He just rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning, Julian was frantically searching the living room.

"Have you seen my grey suit? I need it for today," he called out.

Vivian sat at the breakfast table, sipping her coffee. She smiled over the rim of her cup. It was a terrifying smile.

"I threw it away," she said pleasantly.

"What?" Julian frowned, walking into the dining room. "Why?"

"It had a stain," Vivian said. "A nasty, cheap stain. I couldn't get it out. So I got rid of the whole thing."

Julian stared at her. "You're acting weird, Vivian."

"I'm just cleaning house, Julian," she said. "Just cleaning house."

The phone rang at 3:00 AM.

It was a sound that cut through the silence of the bedroom like a knife.

Julian groaned and fumbled for his phone. He answered it, his voice thick with sleep.

"Hello?"

Then, his tone changed. It softened. It became the voice he used to use for Vivian, years ago.

"Scarlett? What's wrong? Slow down."

Vivian lay still, her back to him. Her eyes were wide open.

"My stomach hurts?" Julian repeated. "Like... bad?"

He sat up. "Okay. Okay, don't cry. I'm coming."

He hung up and threw the covers off.

"Where are you going?" Vivian asked into the dark.

"Scarlett is sick," Julian said, pulling on his trousers. "She thinks it's appendicitis. She's all alone."

"Call an ambulance," Vivian said. "You're not a doctor."

"She's scared of hospitals!" Julian snapped. "God, you're heartless. She's just a kid."

He grabbed a white dress shirt from the closet. He buttoned it wrong, missing a hole.

"I'll be back," he said. He didn't kiss her. He didn't even look at her.

He ran out.

Vivian heard the roar of his sports car fading into the distance.

She got up. She walked to the window. The rain had stopped. The world was quiet.

She waited.

She waited for three hours.

At 6:00 AM, the car returned.

Julian walked in. He looked exhausted. But he didn't look like someone who had spent the night in an ER waiting room. He smelled... fresh. He smelled like generic, cheap hotel soap.

"How was the appendix?" Vivian asked. She was sitting in the armchair, waiting.

"False alarm," Julian muttered, avoiding her eyes. "Just... indigestion. Stress."

He took off his shirt and threw it into the hamper. "I'm going to sleep for an hour."

He collapsed onto the bed and was out in seconds.

Vivian stood up. She walked to the hamper.

She pulled out the white shirt.

She examined it under the bathroom light.

There it was.

On the inside of the collar. Right where it would rub against a neck if someone buried their face there.

A lipstick stain.

Bright, cherry red.

Vivian didn't wear red lipstick. Only Scarlett did.

Indigestion? No.

Vivian dropped the shirt. She didn't feel anger anymore. She felt hollow.

She walked into the study. She opened her laptop.

She went to the airline website.

Destination: Paris.

Ticket Type: One Way.

Date: Next Tuesday.

She entered her credit card details—her secret card, the one linked to an offshore account her grandmother had set up for her.

Click. Confirmed.

She stared at the confirmation screen. One Way.

It was the most beautiful phrase she had ever seen. She printed the confirmation, folded it, and tucked it into her journal. A promise to herself.

Then, she drafted another document.

To the Board of Directors of the Kensington Foundation,

I hereby resign from my position as Honorary Chairwoman...

It was a fluff title. A volunteer position where she did all the work and Julian took all the credit. But it was the only official ties she had to the company.

She typed fast. She didn't use flowery language. She kept it professional. Cold.

At the bottom, she added a postscript.

P.S. Ask Julian about the "appendicitis."

She deleted it. No. She would not be petty. Not on paper.

She printed the letter.

She walked back to the bedroom. Julian was snoring. The man she had vowed to love forever. The man who was currently smelling of another woman's cheap soap.

She looked at him one last time.

"Goodbye, Julian," she whispered.

He didn't wake up. He never would.