The ballroom of the Saint-Rémy estate glittered like a dream spun from lies.
Crystal chandeliers bathed the golden walls in warmth, masking the chill of the power that pulsed beneath every smile. Diamonds sparkled. Glasses clinked. Laughter echoed like weapons drawn in velvet.
Vivienne entered fashionably late.
She wore midnight—an off-shoulder silk gown with a high slit and black velvet gloves that reached past her elbows. Her honey-brown eyes were rimmed in gold shadow, her lips painted a dangerous shade of wine. She looked like temptation dipped in arsenic.
Damien followed close behind, dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, his emerald eyes sharp beneath his black hair. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence was enough.
All eyes turned to them.
The last of the D'Arcys had arrived.
Vivienne's heels clicked softly against marble as she walked through the sea of snakes disguised as socialites. Many recognized her. Fewer dared approach. Those who did—diplomats, art dealers, old friends of her father—spoke in veiled pleasantries, never quite looking her in the eye.
They could smell the shift in the air.
She wasn't prey anymore.
At the far end of the ballroom stood a man with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes like frost. He wore a tailored tuxedo, a serpent brooch at his throat, and the calm smile of a man who'd orchestrated massacres over breakfast.
Valentin Orséa.
Her godfather.
He noticed her instantly. His smile didn't falter, but his posture changed—slight, sharp. Predator to predator.
"Vivienne," he said as she approached. "You've grown."
"So have your shadows," she replied coolly.
He reached for her gloved hand. She let him take it. His grip was warm, calculated. "You look just like her."
"My mother?"
A flicker in his gaze. "Yes. Amelia."
"She always said the prettiest things rot first," Vivienne murmured. "Funny how roses and power both prove her right."
Valentin chuckled, low and cold. "Still poetic. Your father would be proud."
"My father would have burned this room to the ground."
Damien stepped closer, a warning in his eyes.
Valentin didn't flinch. "And who's this? The stray your father fed from his table?"
Damien's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Vivienne's voice was ice. "The man who watched me survive everything your legacy left behind."
Valentin's eyes narrowed. "You don't belong here, child."
"I own this room now," Vivienne said. "And I know everything."
He tilted his head. "Then you know you're already in too deep."
"I was born in the deep end," she whispered.
Valentin leaned forward. "You think you've uncovered something. That you'll expose us with your little ledgers and letters."
She smiled. "No, Valentin. I'm not here to expose you."
She took a step closer.
"I'm here to replace you."
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Then Valentin laughed. Quiet, slow, cruel. "You are your father's daughter."
Vivienne leaned in. "No. I'm something worse."
She walked away with Damien at her side. Heads turned as they passed. Whispers followed them like perfume.
In a quiet corner of the ballroom, Damien whispered, "He won't let you walk away unscathed."
"He already did," Vivienne said. "He just doesn't know it yet."
Outside, rain began to fall—soft, steady, as if the heavens were washing the blood to come.