Yes, I’ve even finished myself off to the memory of her—more than a few times. But not tonight. Not yet. Revenge tastes better slow.
The car pulls into the private garage beneath my building. Vivian looks around as if the walls themselves might swallow her. I step out first, then gesture for her.
She hesitates, then exits the car with the elegance of someone pretending not to be terrified.
We walk to the private elevator—only accessible with my keycard.
The doors slide open.
We step inside.
She stands rigid in the corner, arms folded tightly, chin raised like she’s preparing for execution.
The silence stretches.
The elevator climbs.
And for the first time tonight, I can feel her breathing harder than I am. When the doors slide open to my penthouse floor, I step aside and nod toward the hall.
“Out.”
My voice is quiet, but it lands like a blow. She flinches, then walks forward on shaky legs.
“Your things are already in your room,” I add, watching the way her shoulders tense. “First door on the right.”
She steps into the hallway, dazed, like she’s not sure how she got here. Then she turns back to me.
“You’re…you’re not coming in?” she asks, eyes wide, voice small but trembling at the edges—like she’s afraid of the answer and daring me to give it anyway.
I shake my head once.
Her throat works. “So what do you want from me?”
I let the answer settle heavily between us.
“I don’t need your body,” I say, each word deliberate, controlled, cruel. “I only need you to wear my name while I dismantle your family piece by piece.”
Her lips part. Confusion. Hurt. Then fear.
And then—slowly—anger.
“Why?” she whispers. “Why are you doing this?”
I don’t answer.
I don’t even blink.
She deserves the truth, but she’s not ready for it. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. I press the button to close the elevator doors.
As the gap narrows, I catch the flicker in her eyes—tears she refuses to let fall, fury she refuses to hide.
She looks at me like a challenge.
Like a spark begging for gasoline.
Fine.
If she wants a war, I’ll give her one.
