Vivian stopped believing in coincidence three days after Elias was fired.
At first, she told herself she was imagining patterns where none existed. Guilt had a way of distorting memory, and grief often reached for something—or someone—to blame. Elias had crossed a line. Sebastian had intervened. The company had acted swiftly.
That was all.
That was supposed to be all.
Then Marcus Lee vanished.
Marcus was a junior manager from logistics—polite, reserved, unfailingly professional. They had eaten lunch together twice, always in groups, always harmless. On the third day, he had lingered near her desk, shifting his weight nervously.
"If you're ever free," he'd said, rubbing the back of his neck, "maybe we could get coffee sometime? Outside work."
She had smiled and declined gently. She always did.
The next morning, his desk was empty.
No goodbye email.
No internal announcement.
No whispers loud enough to explain it.
Just gone.
"Transferred urgently," someone muttered.
"Family issue," another guessed.
Vivian wrapped her fingers around her coffee cup, the heat biting into her skin. She didn't let go.
Two men.
Two disappearances.
Both connected to her.
The unease crept in slowly, then all at once—like a door she hadn't known existed suddenly swinging open.
She began noticing things she had ignored her entire life.
The way conversations dulled when Sebastian entered a room. The way executives straightened instinctively, like soldiers receiving silent orders. The way HR moved with unsettling speed whenever his name appeared on an internal memo.
And the way information reached him—details she had never shared, decisions she hadn't finalized, thoughts she hadn't voiced.
"You didn't eat lunch today."
Vivian flinched.
She turned slowly. Sebastian stood beside her desk, composed as ever, jacket folded neatly over his arm.
"How would you know that?" she asked.
"Your assistant mentioned it."
"I don't have an assistant."
A faint smile curved his lips. "No. I do."
Her stomach tightened. "You can't monitor me like that."
"I'm not monitoring you," he replied calmly. "I'm making sure you're taken care of."
There it was again.
Care.
Protection.
Family.
Words that had always sounded safe—until they didn't.
"I'm an adult, Sebastian."
"I know," he said softly. "That's why I worry."
The way he said it made her skin prickle, as if worry were something heavier. Possessive.
That night, she started avoiding him.
Leaving earlier.
Returning later.
Taking different elevators.
Scheduling meetings she didn't need just to stay out of his sight.
Sebastian noticed.
Of course he did.
"You've been distant," he said two nights later over dinner.
The dining hall felt cavernous, echoing with the clink of cutlery and silence. Their parents were away again—another business trip, another gala, another absence that had once left her grateful Sebastian was there.
"I've been busy," Vivian replied.
"With what?"
"My life."
The words slipped out before she could soften them.
Sebastian's knife paused mid-cut.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
Not angry.
Not surprised.
Focused.
"Your life," he said quietly, "has always been tied to this family."
Something cold slid down her spine.
She pushed her chair back. "I'm going to my room."
"Sit."
Not loud.
Not sharp.
Certain.
Her body obeyed before her mind could stop it.
The realization hit harder than the command itself.
Later that night, Vivian lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying memories she had once called love.
Sebastian attending every school event.
Sebastian approving her choices.
Sebastian correcting her mistakes before they became public.
She had thought herself lucky.
Now she understood something else.
He hadn't just been present.
He had been everywhere.
Her laptop glowed softly beside her. An unopened email stared back at her.
Overseas transfer — Temporary assignment. Optional.
She had received it weeks ago.
She hadn't told anyone.
Especially not Sebastian.
Her finger hovered over the screen.
Accept.
The confirmation came instantly.
Her breath left her in a shaky rush.
Just for a while, she told herself. Space. Silence. Freedom.
Her phone buzzed.
Sebastian.
Her heart dropped.
You're traveling.
The room tilted.
She hadn't booked a ticket.
Hadn't packed.
Hadn't said a word.
I haven't decided, she typed, fingers trembling.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
His reply came seconds later.
You don't need distance from me, Vivian.
Everything you belong to is already here.
Belong.
The word wrapped around her chest like a tightening chain.
For the first time, the thought formed clearly in her mind—sharp and terrifying.
What if he doesn't just want to protect me?
What if he wants to keep me?
The next morning, she finalized her plans.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Without telling anyone.
She avoided Sebastian entirely—left before dawn, returned after midnight. When the day came, she didn't say goodbye.
As the plane lifted into the sky, tears slid silently down her cheeks.
Freedom, she realized, didn't feel triumphant.
It felt like betrayal.
Two years passed.
London stripped her down and rebuilt her piece by piece.
She learned how to walk streets where no one knew her name. How to make choices without permission. How to laugh without glancing over her shoulder.
She made friends. Real ones.
She learned what it meant to be seen—without being claimed.
And slowly, the pressure around her chest eased.
Until the call came.
"Vivian, darling," her mother said softly. "It's time you came home."
The flight back felt heavier than the one that had taken her away.
The Ravenscroft estate loomed unchanged—grand, immaculate, unforgiving.
As Vivian stepped into her childhood home, the first sound she heard wasn't a greeting.
It was crying.
A girl's sobs echoed down the hallway.
Vivian froze.
And before she knew why—before anyone explained anything—she felt it deep in her bones.
Something she had always thought was hers was about to be taken away.
Or worse.
Something she had never truly owned at all.
Or wworsSomething she had never truly owned at aalCHAPTER TWO — CCLAVivian stopped believing in coincidence three days after Elias was ffireAt first, she told herself she was imagining patterns where none existed. Guilt had a way of distorting memory, and fear often reached for something—or someone—to bblamElias had crossed a liline