Vivienne's POV
I was still staring at the threatening messages when Sophie burst through the door like a hurricane.
Don't read the news, she said immediately, which meant I absolutely needed to read the news.
My assistant, no, my only remaining friend, looked terrible. Her eyes were red from crying. Her hands shook as she held a stack of newspapers and magazines. She'd been with me for three years, organizing my life, managing my schedule, and apparently, she was the only person in New York City who still gave a damn if I lived or died.
Show me. My voice sounded stronger than I felt.
Vivienne, maybe we should wait until
Sophie. Show me.
She dropped the newspapers on my lap like they were on fire.
The first headline punched me in the stomach: ASHFORD HEIRESS MENTALLY UNSTABLE, FAMILY SEEKS INTERVENTION.
My hands trembled as I picked up the paper. There was a photo of Patricia, my stepmother, looking perfectly concerned and elegant outside a courthouse. The article said she'd filed legal papers to have me declared incompetent. She told reporters I was suffering from severe trauma-induced psychosis and unable to make rational decisions.
She's trying to take everything, Sophie said quietly. Your trust fund, your position in the company, even control over your medical care. She's claiming you're too unstable to manage your own life.
My throat closed up. Patricia had waited exactly three weeks, three weeks while I lay in a hospital bed recovering from bullet wounds, before she started destroying me.
There's more. Sophie handed me another paper.
MARCUS ASHFORD TAKES CONTROL OF FAMILY EMPIRE.
My half-brother smiled from the photo, standing in front of Ashford Enterprises like he owned it. Which, apparently, he did now. The article said the board voted unanimously to remove me from my position and install Marcus as interim CEO.
Unanimously, I whispered. I've known some of those board members since I was a child.
They're vultures, Sophie said fiercely. All of them. They see blood in the water and they're circling.
But the worst was still coming. I could tell by the way Sophie's face crumpled.
What else? I asked, even though part of me didn't want to know.
She handed me a glossy magazine. Vanity Fair. The cover showed a beautiful woman with blonde hair and a perfect smile. Claire Donovan. My best friend since boarding school. My maid of honor. The girl who knew all my secrets.
The headline read: THE REAL VIVIENNE ASHFORD: A FRIEND'S TRUTH.
My hands went numb as I read Claire's words.
I love Vivienne, but she's always been... fragile. Neurotic. She needs everything to be perfect, and when it's not, she falls apart. The pills started years ago—anxiety medication, sleeping pills, painkillers. She was obsessed with her image, with being the perfect Ashford princess. This breakdown was inevitable, honestly. I just hope she gets the help she needs.
Each word was a knife. Claire made me sound crazy. Weak. A pill-popping socialite who invented drama for attention.
None of it was true. But it didn't matter. The whole world was reading these lies right now.
Keep going, Sophie said softly. You need to see everything.
The next page showed photos. Julian, my fiancé, the man I was supposed to marry in four months, standing close to Claire at some gallery opening. His hand on her waist. Her head on his shoulder. Both of them smiling like they'd been together forever.
The caption read: Harrington and Donovan: New York's Newest Power Couple.
I stopped breathing.
His publicist sent out a statement yesterday, Sophie said, her voice shaking with anger. Julian ended your engagement. He said, and I quote, 'Our relationship was a mistake born from family pressure and social expectations. I wish Vivienne well in her recovery, but we want different things in life.'
He didn't even call me. My voice sounded hollow. Five years together. We were supposed to get married. And he ended it through his publicist.
He's a coward, Sophie spat. They both are. While you were fighting for your life, they were— She couldn't finish.
I stared at the photos. Julian and Claire. Claire and Julian. My fiancé and my best friend, wrapped around each other, smiling for cameras, giving interviews about how grateful they are to have found each other during such a difficult time.
How long? How long had they been together behind my back?
The room tilted. My chest hurt worse than my bullet wounds.
Vivienne, breathe, Sophie said, grabbing my hand. Just breathe.
But I couldn't. Because I finally understood. Everyone I trusted, my stepmother, my brother, my fiancé, my best friend, they'd all been waiting for me to fall. And the moment I did, the moment someone put bullets through my car window, they didn't rush to help me.
They rushed to take everything I had left.
There's one more thing, Sophie said hesitantly. She pulled out her phone and showed me a social media post.
It was Claire's Instagram from last night. A photo of her and Julian at dinner, holding hands across the table. The caption read: Sometimes the worst moments lead us to the best people. Grateful for second chances and real love. #Blessed #NewBeginnings.
The post had fifty thousand likes.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw something. Instead, I just sat there in my wheelchair, surrounded by newspapers that called me crazy, looking at photos of my best friend stealing my life while I recovered from an assassination attempt.
I'm sorry, Sophie whispered. I'm so sorry.
My phone buzzed. Another unknown number.
My heart jumped into my throat. Was it them again? The people who wanted me dead?
I opened the message with shaking hands.
It was a video file. No text. Just a video.
Don't, Sophie said. Vivienne, don't open it. It could be dangerous.
But I was already pressing play.
The video was dark and grainy, like security camera footage. It showed a parking garage. Empty except for two people talking by a car.
I recognized them immediately.
Marcus and Julian. My brother and my ex-fiancé. Together.
The video had no sound, but I watched Julian hand Marcus an envelope. Marcus opened it, counted something inside, money? and nodded. They shook hands.
The timestamp on the video was dated two weeks before the assassination attempt.
Before someone tried to kill me.
Before my driver died and my bodyguard fell into a coma.
My blood turned to ice.
The video ended and a text message appeared below it:
Want to know what your brother paid your fiancé to do? Ask him yourself. If you survive long enough.