The security guards didn't drag her, but they held her arms firmly, escorting her to the elevator like a prisoner. When the doors opened in the lobby, they released her. Vivian stumbled, nearly falling onto the marble floor.

People stared. Whispers rippled through the room.

Vivian straightened her spine. She smoothed her hair. She was a Sterling. She would not cry in public.

The revolving doors spun. Conrad walked in, flanked by two assistants. He looked like he owned the place.

He saw Vivian. A cruel smile spread across his face. He stopped, blocking her path to the exit.

"Rough meeting?" Conrad laughed. "I told you, sis. Blackwood is out of your league. I'm going up to sign the consulting agreement now. It's over."

Vivian's mind raced. If Conrad went up there, if he signed that paper, she was dead in the water. She had to stop him.

She looked at Conrad. She looked at the elevator where Caleb was just stepping out, holding a file.

A lie formed on her tongue. It was reckless. It was dangerous. It was perfect.

Vivian laughed. She threw her head back and let out a throaty, amused sound. She stepped closer to Conrad, invading his personal space.

"Oh, Conrad," she purred, loud enough for the receptionists to hear. "You really think he kicked me out because of business?"

Conrad frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Vivian gestured to her messy hair and the red mark on her arm where the guard had held her. "Julian and I... we have a complicated history. He likes it rough. The restraining order? That's just foreplay."

Conrad looked disgusted. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Vivian lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Why do you think I was at his penthouse at 3 AM last night? To discuss tort law?"

Conrad hesitated. The TMZ video. It made sense.

Vivian turned to Caleb, who was walking past. "Caleb," she called out.

Caleb stopped, looking wary.

Vivian tossed her hair back, giving Caleb a look of pure, spoiled arrogance. "Tell Julian not to be so dramatic next time. He knows I bruise easily."

Caleb, trained to be the most discreet assistant in Manhattan, stiffened. He didn't confirm or deny. He simply gave a curt nod and kept walking, likely assuming she was just being her usual nightmare self.

To Conrad, that silence was confirmation.

Conrad's face turned purple. "He's sleeping with you? He's compromised."

"He's obsessed with me," Vivian corrected.

Conrad swore. "I can't trust him. If he's screwing you, he's screwing me."

He turned on his heel. "Let's go," he barked at his assistants. "We're finding another firm."

Conrad stormed out of the building.

Vivian let out a breath, her knees shaking. She had done it. She had bought herself time.

Caleb stopped by the elevator bank. He looked at Vivian. "Mr. Blackwood is watching the lobby feed," he said quietly.

Vivian looked up at the black dome of the security camera in the corner. She stared right into the lens.

Forty floors up, Julian sat at his desk, the coffee stain still on his collar. He watched the screen. He watched Vivian lie with the skill of a sociopath.

He touched the screen where her face was.

"Interesting," he murmured.

Vivian sat in the corner booth of Sarabeth's, hiding behind oversized sunglasses. Willow, her best friend since kindergarten, slid a mimosa across the table.

"You look like you've been in a war zone," Willow said, sipping her own drink.

"I have," Vivian said. "I need to know where Julian is going this weekend."

"How would I know?" Willow asked.

"Check the tags," Vivian said, pulling out her phone. "The Hamptons season opener is this weekend. Look at the geo-tags for the Dune Club. Look for his partner, Silas Vance. Silas posts everything."

Willow scrolled for a moment. "Found him. Silas just posted a story. 'Tee time with the devil.' Location: The Dune Club, East Hampton."

Vivian smiled grimly. "Perfect."

"You're not a member," Willow pointed out. "And your dad's membership is suspended pending the audit."

"Hunter is a member," Vivian said.

An hour later, Vivian was keying herself into Hunter's Upper East Side apartment. She knew he was in London hiding from the press.

The apartment was silent. Dust sheets covered the furniture. It looked like a mausoleum.

Vivian went to the desk in the study. She rifled through the drawers. Passport, condoms, and there it was-the platinum Dune Club card.

As she grabbed it, something shiny in the wastebasket caught her eye. It was wedged between the liner and the bin itself.

She reached in. It was a diamond earring. Not hers.

Vivian stared at it. It was cheap. Flashy. Probably the nanny's.

She felt a wave of nausea, but she pushed it down. She didn't have time for heartbreak. She dropped the earring into her purse. You never threw away ammunition.

She had a golf game to crash.

That night, Vivian lay in bed at the Hamptons estate-the only property she could still access. She scrolled through photos of Julian on her iPad.

Most were professional headshots. Cold. Distant.

But she found one from ten years ago. A blurry photo from a high school yearbook. Julian was laughing, his arm around a friend. He looked human. He looked like the boy she had destroyed.

She touched the screen.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the boy in the photo. "But I have to do this."

Outside, thunder rumbled. A storm was coming.

The Dune Club was a fortress of hedges and white-clad elitism. Vivian drove her red convertible past the gatehouse, flashing Hunter's card with a smile that could melt steel.

"Mr. Sterling isn't with you?" the guard asked, frowning at the card. "And this card... the system is flagging a hold."

Vivian didn't blink. She leaned out of the car, lowering her sunglasses. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, Miss Sterling, but-"

"Then you know my father owns the media conglomerate that decides which Hamptons clubs get featured in the 'Summer's Best' list and which ones get exposed for health code violations in the kitchen." She smiled sweetly. "My fiancé is meeting me on the ninth hole. Open the gate, or I make a phone call."

The guard hesitated. He looked at the card, then at her. The threat of bad press was worth more than a membership rule.

He opened the gate.

Vivian parked and changed into a white tennis skirt that was borderline scandalous and a tight polo shirt. She rented a golf cart and drove onto the course.

She found him on the 14th hole.

Julian was mid-swing. The motion was fluid, powerful, and terrifyingly precise. The ball soared through the air, landing inches from the pin.

Beside him stood Silas Vance, a tech billionaire and Julian's only known friend.

Vivian slammed her foot on the gas. The electric cart whirred loudly as she skidded to a halt right next to the tee box.

"Fore!" she yelled cheerfully.

Julian turned slowly. He was wearing navy slacks and a white polo that emphasized the tan of his arms. He lowered his sunglasses.

"You have got to be kidding me," he said.

Silas laughed. "Is this the stalker? She's hotter in person."

Vivian hopped out of the cart. She walked right up to Julian, ignoring the radiating waves of hostility.

"You didn't return my calls," she said, pouting.

"Because I filed a restraining order," Julian said through gritted teeth. "It should be served to you any minute."

"I haven't received it yet," Vivian said, stepping closer. She reached out and straightened his collar. "So technically, I'm just a friendly acquaintance."

Julian grabbed her wrist. His grip was hard. "You are trespassing."

"I'm a guest," she said. She leaned in, dropping her voice. "Take the case, Julian. Or I'm going to start screaming that you got me pregnant."

Silas choked on his water.

Julian's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me. I have nothing left to lose."

Julian pulled her closer, until her chest bumped against his. "You think this is a game? You think because you're a pretty little rich girl, nothing can touch you?"

He looked at her with such intensity that Vivian's knees went weak.

"I think," she whispered, "that you're the only one who can save me."

Julian stared at her for a long beat. Then he shoved her away.

"Get off my course," he said. "Now."