"Viv?" I say, my voice tense.
"Audrey." Vivian sounds out of breath, like she is walking fast. "Are you with Malcolm?"
"I'm here," Malcolm says, his voice instantly shifting back to the cold, authoritative CEO.
"Turn on the local news," Vivian says. "Channel five. Right now."
Malcolm doesn't ask questions. He reaches across the desk, grabs the remote, and turns on the flat-screen television mounted on the wall.
The screen flickers to life.
It is a live helicopter shot. The camera is zoomed in on a massive, stone-faced mansion surrounded by police cars and fire trucks. The red and blue lights flash rhythmically against the dark sky.
Flames are shooting out of the roof of the east wing.
I stare at the screen, my brain refusing to process the visual data.
"Is that..." I swallow hard. "Is that the Vance estate?"
"Yes," Vivian says through the phone. "It started ten minutes ago. The fire department is already on the scene, but the east wing is completely gone."
Malcolm stands perfectly still. He is staring at the television, his expression completely unreadable.
"Was anyone hurt?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"No," Vivian replies. "The house staff evacuated everyone. Preston and Simon are safe. But Audrey..." She hesitates, the sound of a siren wailing in the background of her call. "The police are already treating it as arson. And they are looking for Malcolm."
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, painful rush.
I look at Malcolm.
Malcolm makes me feel like I could burn this entire house down, and he would stand in the driveway and hand me the gasoline.
I said that. I said that exact sentence at the dinner table, in front of Preston, in front of Simon, in front of the staff.
And now, the house is actually burning.
"Malcolm," I whisper, dropping the phone onto the desk.
He doesn't look at me. He is staring at the flames on the screen.
"I didn't do it," he says quietly.
I know he didn't. He was with me the entire time. He was in the ballroom, he was in the car, he was here in the penthouse.
But Preston Vance doesn't care about the truth. He lost his company tonight. He lost his leverage. And now, he is going to use my own words to frame his oldest son for arson.
The war didn't end.
It just changed weapons.
CHAPTER 24
MALCOLM
The flames on the television screen are a bright, violent orange against the dark sky. The news anchor is speaking rapidly, her voice a low drone of sensationalism, but I am not listening to the words. I am analyzing the structural collapse of the east wing.
It is a clean burn. Too clean.
