The city didn't sleep after the museum incident. It stirred.
Every television screen, every tablet, every whispered conversation in the corridors of power echoed with the leak Vivienne had unleashed. The Orséa syndicate's pristine facade had cracked. Names were no longer safe behind money and marble.
But Vivienne knew this was only the beginning.
She sat by the window of the Montreuil safehouse, the storm outside mirroring her thoughts. The soft glow of candlelight reflected off her glass of wine, untouched. Damien was across the room, speaking quietly into a secured line, coordinating allies who were suddenly willing to listen.
Funny how truth made cowards out of kings.
He hung up and looked at her. "They want a truce."
Vivienne didn't move. "Who?"
"Valentin's emissary. A man named Silas Vaux. They're calling it 'The Crimson Accord.' A meeting. Neutral ground. No weapons."
She raised a brow. "And they expect me to trust that?"
Damien walked toward her, his expression carved from stone. "They're scared, Viv. You rattled the entire skeleton. If they don't contain you now, the whole machine breaks down."
"And so they offer peace."
"For a price."
She sipped her wine at last, her voice cold. "There's always a price."
Damien sat beside her. "You don't have to do this alone."
Vivienne turned to him slowly, her honey-brown eyes hard as amber. "I was born alone in a world that lied to me. I grew up in shadows cast by men pretending to be gods. I'll meet them. But I won't kneel."
---
The Crimson Accord was scheduled at an abandoned opera house in Lyon. Once opulent, now decaying, it mirrored the elegance-turned-rot of the empire they faced.
Vivienne arrived clad in a blood-red suit that matched her lips and heels sharp enough to cut glass. She walked through the crumbling marble foyer like a goddess of ruin, Damien beside her in a tailored midnight-black suit. His eyes were always scanning—walls, exits, faces.
The opera house was lit by candelabras and tension. Silas Vaux waited at center stage, flanked by two men in gray. A former diplomat, now a mouthpiece for monsters.
He smiled too widely. "Vivienne D'Arcy. Or should I say Laurent?"
She kept walking until she stood before him. "You should say 'dead woman walking.'"
Silas chuckled, but his eyes flinched. "We could destroy you, you know. You're alone."
"No," Vivienne replied, her voice smooth and lethal. "I'm unafraid. There's a difference."
Damien handed her a folder. She opened it and let its contents spill at Silas's feet—photographs, documents, evidence from the USB. Crimes soaked in blood and ink.
"Give this to Valentin," she said. "Tell him I'm not offering terms. I'm offering truth. He has two choices—burn with it, or beg for redemption."
Silas bent down slowly, picking up a photograph. "You think you're different from us?"
"I know I am."
He looked up, smirking. "And if Valentin doesn't accept?"
Vivienne stepped closer until their breath mingled. "Then I won't just break his empire. I'll salt the earth he built it on."
Silas hesitated. For the first time, fear flickered in his eyes.
Vivienne turned without another word, Damien close behind. As they exited through the rusted double doors, she whispered, "This wasn't a meeting. It was a warning."
Damien exhaled. "They'll retaliate."
"They already have," she said. "Burned Rosemoor. Hunted ghosts. But they've never met a flame they couldn't contain."
She looked over her shoulder at the fading opera house.
"Until now."