The coffee shop on Fifth Avenue buzzed with morning talk. Vivian checked her watch again. Fifteen minutes late. That wasn't like Margot Vale. Margot had always been on time for everything.
As the DeWitt family lawyer for twenty years, she lived by her plan like it was a religion. Vivian sipped her coffee, watching people hurry past the window.
Three days had passed since seeing Isabella at the gala. Three days of nightmares, of questions with no answers, of feeling like the ground beneath her feet might crack open at any time. Her phone buzzed with a text. Look up.
Across the street stood Margot Vale, her sleek black bob unmistakable against the gray city background. She wasn't coming inside. Instead, she pointed down the block and started walking. Vivian grabbed her bag and ran out, nearly bumping into a businessman with a briefcase. "Sorry," she mumbled, but her eyes stayed fixed on Margot's departing figure. She caught up at the corner. "Margot? I thought we were meeting at"
"Change of plans," Margot cut in. Her red lips barely moved as she spoke. "We need somewhere private. Not where people expect to see us together." Vivian's stomach tightened. Margot had always been direct but never sly like this. "What's going on?"
"Not here." Margot's heels clicked quickly on the sidewalk. They turned into a small park where the trees blocked out some of the city noise. Margot picked a bench far from the paths where joggers ran. Her black suit was neatly pressed as always, but dark circles shadowed her eyes. "I don't have much time," Margot said, opening her expensive handbag. "Your father has people watching me."
"Watching you? Why would he" "Because I know things, Vivian. Things he wants buried." She pulled out a big manila envelope. "Like these." Vivian took the envelope. It felt heavy with lies.
"What am I looking at?" "Financial records from ten years ago. Just before Isabella's... disappearance." Vivian's fingers trembled as she opened it. Inside were papers filled with numbers, dates, and names she didn't recognize. But one caught her eye immediately: Elias Blackwood. "Who is he? I keep hearing his name." Margot looked around the park before answering. "A businessman with connections your father needed. Dangerous links." "Criminal connections," Vivian said, pieces clicking into place.
"Smart girl. Always were." Margot's eyes softened for a moment. "Those records show money going through shell companies. Millions of dollars. Your father wasn't just building luxury flats back then." "He was laundering money," Vivian whispered. Margot nodded. "Isabella found out. She threatened to go public."
"And then she drowned." The words felt like stones in Vivian's mouth. "Did she?" Margot raised an eyebrow. A chill crawled up Vivian's spine. "You knew she was alive all this time?"
"I drafted the paperwork that erased her old identity and created her new one." Margot looked away. "Your father said it was to protect her." "From who?" "That's what you need to find out." Margot's phone rang. She checked it and stiffened. "I have to go. Your father's calling a meeting." "Wait!" Vivian grabbed her arm.
"Why are you giving me this now? After all these years?" Something flashed in Margot's eyessomething like pain. "Because I've protected them long enough. Because you deserve the truth." "About Isabella? Or about something else?" Margot's hand covered Vivian's for a brief moment. Her fingers were ice cold despite the warm day. "There's more, Vivian. About you. About why your father could so easily cast you out." Vivian's heart hammered against her ribs. "Tell me."
"Not yet. I need to get certain papers first. Papers your father thinks were destroyed." Margot stood, smoothing her skirt. "Check the back page of those bank records. The names marked in red." Vivian quickly flipped to the last page. Three names were marked with red ink. "Those people all died within months of each other. Around the time Isabella disappeared. Coincidence?" Margot's smile was grim. "I think not."
"Margot, please" "Meet me tomorrow night. The old shop on West 10th where we used to go when you were little. Remember? Eight o'clock." She gathered her bag. "Tell no one about this conversation."
"Does Julian know any of this?" Margot's face hardened. "Trust no one, Vivian. Not Julian. Not Damien. Not Celia Hart." "My therapist? What does she have to do with this?" "Ask her about her son." Margot was already walking away.
"And why she really wanted you as a patient." Vivian sat frozen on the bench, the package heavy in her lap. People walked by, laughing and chatting, unaware of how her world was cracking apart again. Her phone rang. Damien. She let it ring as she opened the last page again. The three names in red ink seemed to pulse on the page.
One was circled more strongly than the others. Michael Hart. Hart. Like Celia Hart. Vivian's blood turned cold. Her therapist. The woman who had heard her darker thoughts for years. The woman who knew all her flaws.
The phone stopped ringing, then started again. This time it was Julian. She answered. "Julian? What's wrong?" His voice came through panting. "Where are you? I've been trying to reach you." "I'm in the park near Fifth. Why?" "Don't move. I'm coming to get you."
"Julian, what's happening?" "Someone broke into your hotel room. They tore the place apart." Vivian clutched the envelope tighter. "I wasn't there. I'm fine." "That's not all." Julian's speech dropped lower. "Isabella was asking around about you. About your meeting with Margot." Ice spread through her blood. "How did she know about that?" "I don't know. But Vivian..." He paused.
"Your father just called an emergency board meeting. Something about changing his will." The pieces started connecting in her mind. Margot's fear. The papers. Isabella's return. "I'll be right there," she said, standing. As she gathered her things, a black car slowed near the park entrance.
Through the tinted window, she caught a flash of blonde hair. Isabella. Vivian ducked behind a tree, heart racing. When she peeked out again, the car was gone. She looked down at the envelope in her hands. Whatever secrets these papers held, someone wanted them badly enough to search her room. To follow her. Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Don't trust Margot Vale. She's not who you think she is. Vivian looked at the message, then at the papers, then at the spot where Margot had been sitting. The family lawyer had seemed truly afraid. But of what? Or whom?
Another text came through. Check her left hand next time. Ask about the scar. Ask about YOUR scar. Vivian's hand automatically went to her own wrist, to the small crescent-shaped mark she'd had since birth.
What did her scar have to do with any of this? She shoved the letter deep into her bag and hurried toward the park exit, the weight of secrets making each step heavier than the last.