Chapter 2

Vivienne's POV

Right beside my gray house slippers sat a pair of pink fluffy ones.

Not the disposable kind you'd put out for a guest. These were expensive, personal - the kind that implied permanence.

They were pressed intimately against Lucas's black leather slippers, the two pairs nudging each other at the toes, almost playfully.

Lucas had severe OCD when it came to his personal space. He wouldn't even let his award-winning Persian cat set foot in certain rooms.

And yet these shoes stood there like a declaration of war.

The air was thick with a cloying, sweet fragrance - some cheap, aggressive floral perfume that had completely smothered the cool, woody scent I always wore.

At the cemetery, he told me only death could separate us.

In this house, he was letting another woman build a nest in his territory while I was still alive.

"So the living get pushed out, and the dead get to keep their hole."

I picked up the pink slippers without expression and dropped them in the trash can by the door.

I walked into the living room and found a same-day delivery package sitting in the center of the coffee table.

No sender information.

I opened it. Inside was a new iPad.

The screen lit up on its own, and a video began to play.

I recognized the background immediately. It was the Presidential Suite at the top of the Vivienne - the cruise ship.

The one Lucas had once promised would always belong only to me.

The camera swept the room. The minimalist, cool-toned décor I had chosen had been torn apart.

A young woman wearing my custom-made silk robe was directing workers to paint the walls pink.

"That light is too dim. Replace it with one of those massive crystal chandeliers."

She turned toward the camera and flashed a big V-sign with her fingers.

She was twirling a pen between her fingers.

A Montblanc. Limited edition. The one I had used to sign the Holt Group's first billion-dollar shipping contract. It meant everything to me.

I had turned the entire study upside down looking for it just days ago.

And there it was - spinning between her fingers like a cheap toy.

That feeling of being watched, being consumed, being picked apart - it was colder than anything the rain outside could do to me.

I opened the photo album on the tablet.

I scrolled. Page after page of prenatal records.

The ultrasound images were clear. The fetal outline unmistakable.

At the bottom of the report, in the signature field, someone had signed in a bold, slashing hand.

Lucas Holt. His signature pressed hard into the page.

In the notes column, a line in bold:"Holt Family Firstborn - Maximum Guardian Priority".

There was one more item in the video folder. Recorded twenty minutes ago.

Right around the time he had left me standing in the cemetery.

In the footage, Lucas was lying with his head resting against the woman's stomach, his ear pressed to the curve of it.

His eyes were closed. His expression was reverent - like a man at prayer.

The hand resting on her belly bore several fresh red marks across the back - scratches left by my nails when he had grabbed my wrist at the cemetery.

The cold, brutal expression he had worn in front of me had melted into something gentle. Something I had never once seen him give me.

I lurched into the bathroom and retched over the toilet.

There was nothing in my stomach. It was all bile.

The revulsion hit harder than the rage.

That was my husband. The man who had once fought his way out of a dead-end slum at my side, back to back, through blood and bodies.

Looking at him now felt like watching a dog in heat, driven by nothing but the need to breed.

The iPad vibrated. A FaceTime request popped up.

I answered.

Bianca White's face filled the screen - all dewy skin and collagen-plump cheeks.

In the background, a fetal monitor beeped in a slow, steady rhythm.

"Nice sound, isn't it?" Her voice was sweet. Her eyes were vicious - like needles dipped in poison.

"The doctor says this is the strongest heartbeat the Holt family has ever produced. Yours was just barren ground, Vivienne. Lucas needed somewhere worth planting."

Even the Vivienne no longer had a place for Vivienne herself.