The first threat arrived in the form of roses.
A dozen of them—blackened, frost-bitten, dead—left on Vivienne's doorstep in a crystal vase filled with ash. No note. No signature.
But the message was very clear.
You are marked.
Vivienne stared at them in silence, gloves still on, lips pressed into a thin fine line.
Damien stood beside her, his expression unreadable. "He's trying to rattle you."
"He doesn't know how deep my roots go."
She reached into the vase and pulled one thorny stem free, pricking her finger in the process. A single drop of crimson fell into the ash below.
Her blood. Her answer.
Later that evening, the estate's garden transformed. Vivienne had summoned her allies—old family connections who had watched in silence for years, unsure which way the wind would blow. Now, it was her wind.
They gathered in the moonlit garden, cloaked in furs, tailored suits, and secrets.
Among them:
— Eleanor Lys, a reclusive art collector whose vault held not just paintings but payoffs.
— Sir Julian Crest, disgraced politician turned arms broker.
— Margot Vale, her estranged cousin with a sharp tongue and sharper ambition.
Vivienne stood before them like a queen without a crown, her voice steady as stone.
"The Orséa syndicate has ruled this city from the shadows long enough," she said. "They silenced my mother. They bought my father. They buried the truth."
"And you?" asked Eleanor, eyes narrowed like knives. "What makes you different?"
Vivienne met her gaze. "I don't want power. I want justice. And justice doesn't beg."
Damien stepped forward, laying the red ledger on a stone table in the center of the garden.
"This has names. Transactions. Hidden networks. Enough to bring down half the syndicate," he said. "But not Valentin. Not yet."
"Then what do you need?" Julian asked, sipping scotch from a silver flask.
Vivienne looked around at them. "A wedge. A betrayal from the inside. Someone close to him. Someone disillusioned."
Margot smirked. "You want a Judas."
"No," Vivienne said softly. "I want a ghost."
A hush fell.
Eleanor spoke first. "He has one. A right hand no one's seen. They call her La Dame Fantôme. No record. No face."
Vivienne's heart thudded. "What do you know?"
"Only that she answers to him—and only him. But rumor says she was once one of us."
Damien frowned. "One of who?"
"Family," Eleanor said, eyes gleaming. "Blood doesn't run clean in our circles."
Vivienne felt a chill crawl up her spine.
Could it be—
"Find her," Vivienne said. "If she's real, she's our key."
The wind rustled through the trees. Somewhere, a raven called.
Damien stepped closer. "If you go after her, you'll be hunted."
Vivienne looked down at her bleeding finger, still stained from the thorn. Then up at him.
"I already am."
And as the last candle in the garden guttered out, casting their faces in shadow, they knew—
The knives had been drawn.