///A story behind the ballroom scene - character inside voice///
"Vivian, what do you hate the most?" Tristan hold a piece of paper writing the random question with both of his hand, showing through the window
Vivian saw the words. She contemplated for a little bit longer than usual. She wrote her answer down onto one of her drafts, folded an airplane and flew it to him through the window.
"YOU"
Vivian closed her curtain immediately after that, and didn't even wait for Tristan's reaction. She lied down onto her soothing bed, looked through all the walls with a lot of thoughts going inside her head.
Tristan…clumsy…silly question. How could he think that I will answer whatever nonsensical stuff to satisfy an individual's curiosity?
Of course, I really hate him. I hate him in every parts of my body, my eyes - my head - my heart. But not the most, for some reasons… If I had to pick a thing to give all my hatred to, it would definitely…be my name!
Not because it wasn't beautiful – it was, in the way that antique jewelry was beautiful, all polished edges and inherited significance. But beside all the glorious on the outside, it came with a story, a legacy that had been chosen for me even before my first breath.
"Vivian means 'alive," mother had told me countless times
"Your great-great-grandmother Vivian Alcott was the first woman to sit on the board of a major bank. bla bla bla ... She made the Alcott name synonymous with excellence."
What mother never mentioned was that the original Vivian had died at thirty-two, exhausted by the weight of perfection. And me ,junior Vivian , had died since I was born - with this name, I was born to die, just like my great-great-grandmother.
Mother had chosen the name deliberately, of course. Just as how she chose everything else about my life with surgical precision. The piano lessons, the languages, the social events, the carefully curated friendship. I was not born to be my mother daughter, I was born to be the perfect heiress, the living embodiment of Alcott legacy.
"You could be anything you want to be."Father always says. I believed that once, before I realized the missing part was still there, hanging around my neck like the most expensive ans long-lasting perfume: as long as what I wanted aligned perfectly with what the family needed.
….
///Back to the garden///
"Miss Alcott. Master Vale."
The voice cut through the air like a knife through silk. Vivian's stomach plummeted as she recognized the head of Mr. Morrison, a stern-faced man who had worked for the Alcotts since before she was born.
Behind him, there were two other guards, their expressions professionally neutral but their presence unmistakably threatening. In the distance, Vivian could see the ballroom windows glowing with warm light… the party continues without them.
Vivian's breath caught in her throat. Her hands began to shake – small tremors that she desperately tried to hide by clasping them behind her back. This was it. This was the moment her mother had been waiting for to lock down her life even tighter. The thoughts came in a cascade of panic:
"Your parents are looking for you," Morrison said, his tone suggesting that 'looking' was a generous way to describe the current situation.
Looking. Right. More like plotting my execution. Vivian's mind raced through possibilities. Maybe I could say I felt sick? That I needed air because of my medication? No, too obvious. Maybe that someone spilled something on my dress and I went to clean it? But then why was Tristan with me? Why are we both dirty?
Tristan scrambled to his feet, his face flushed with embarrassment. "We were just—"
"Getting some air," Vivian finished smoothly, rising with as much dignity as she could muster while barefoot in a garden. Her voice came out steady, a triumph of training over terror. Inside, she was screaming. "We'll return immediately."
But what story do we tell? We need to get our facts straight. We need to—
She glanced at Tristan, hoping to catch his eye, to communicate some kind of plan. But he was staring at the guards with the wide-eyed panic of someone who had never been in real trouble before. His obvious fear made her own terror spike higher.
The walk back to the ballroom. Each step on the marble floors echoed ominously, and Vivian became acutely aware of the grass stains on her gown, the way her carefully styled hair had come loose during their escape.
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. She clenched them into fists, nails digging into her palms, trying to use the pain to center herself. Think, Vivian. Think. What's the best way to get out of this? Mom is gonna kill me. Maybe I should find a way to die first...Holy shit
The panic was building in her chest. She tried to remember her lessons on crisis management – the careful dance of admitting fault without accepting blame, of showing contrition without revealing guilt.
When they reached the ballroom entrance, she caught sight of herself in the ornate mirror by the door. She looked exactly like what she was – a privileged child who had run away from her responsibilities and gotten caught.The thought made her want to run again.
But where could she run to?
This was her life, her world, her prison dressed up as a palace!
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The ballroom seemed different now, transformed from a magical escape into a glittering prison. Conversations stopped mid-sentence as they entered, and Vivian felt the weight of dozens of eyes cataloguing every detail of their disheveled appearance.
They're all looking. They're all judging. By tomorrow morning, everyone will know that Vivian Alcott couldn't even make it through one evening without causing a scene. Oh God, please forgive me this time.
Her mother materialized beside them with the swift efficiency of a guided missile, her smile perfectly intact despite the fury burning in her eyes.
"Darling," Eleanor said, her voice both honey-sweet and razor-sharp, "we were so worried. Where on earth did you go?"
Vivian's throat felt like sandpaper. She could see the calculation in her mother's eyes.
Before Vivian could answer, she felt a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder. Her father had appeared on her other side, creating a barrier between her and the curious onlookers.
"Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more private," Charles suggested, his diplomatic smile not quite reaching his eyes.
Private. Oh God, they're going to want the full story. They're going to want to know exactly what we did, why we did it, how long we were planning it. They're going to dissect every moment until there's nothing left.
Across the small circle, Vivian could see Tristan flanked by his own parents. But Tristan... Tristan looked like he was about to be sick. The color had drained from his face, and he kept glancing around as if looking for an escape route. His obvious panic made Vivian's own fear spike even higher.
He's falling apart. I need him to hold it together. We can get through this if we just stick to the same story, if we just—
"Of course," Eleanor agreed. "The Worthington library should be sufficiently quiet."
Quiet. Soundproof. No witnesses to whatever's about to happen.
As they were shepherded toward a side door, Vivian caught Tristan's eye. He looked as nervous as she felt, but there was something else in his expression – not the rebellious spirit she'd hoped to see, but something that looked almost like... resentment? And from the way he kept avoiding her gaze, she was starting to suspect who he might blame for that. Her guts feeling told her that this was not a normal "bomb", but a NUCLEAR WEAPON.