Rain fell in delicate sheets across the estate, the sound echoing like whispered confessions against the windowpanes. Vivienne sat at her father's old desk in the study, the only room untouched by dust or decay. Everything remained as he'd left it—leather-bound ledgers, crystal decanter, a broken fountain pen still resting beside a letter he never sent.
The will Damien had mentioned haunted her thoughts. A second will. A second truth.
And her name on it.
She had left Rosemoor at seventeen with a shattered heart and a trail of unanswered questions. Now she was its mistress—by blood or by betrayal, she didn't know yet. But the weight of it pressed against her ribs like a cage.
The door creaked open behind her.
"Still hiding in ghosts?" Damien asked.
"I'm not hiding," she said, not looking up. "I'm investigating."
He chuckled softly. "Of course you are. Still the clever little heiress."
She turned in her chair, her honey-brown eyes sharp. "You knew about the will. You knew and said nothing."
"I only knew of its existence. Not its contents. Not until after he died."
"Liar," she said coldly.
Damien leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms across his broad chest. He wore a charcoal suit with an open collar—refined, understated, and far too calm for the storm he was conjuring in her life.
"I never lied to you, Vivienne," he said. "I just didn't tell you everything."
"That's the same thing when you're hiding a knife behind your back."
He stepped closer. "Do you really think I'd hurt you?"
She stood slowly. "I don't think anything. I only know that everyone I've ever trusted has used me."
"You were a child then. You're not anymore."
"No," she said. "Now I'm something worse. I'm an heir."
Damien's jaw tightened.
She walked past him into the hall, her heels echoing like gunshots on marble. "Where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"The will."
A pause. "In the east wing."
She stopped. "It's locked."
"It was locked," he said with a small smirk. "Now it's waiting."
Vivienne turned to him, lips parted. "Why?"
"Because the people who want you dead will come for you soon," he said flatly. "And before they do, you need to decide whether you'll fight... or run again."
The words stung. She stepped closer, anger blooming beneath her skin.
"I didn't run," she said. "You sent me away."
"I saved your life."
"You ruined it."
They stood in silence, breath mingling in the charged air between them.
Then, softer: "What do you want from me, Damien?"
His voice lowered to a near whisper. "I want you to remember who you are."
She laughed bitterly. "You don't even know who I am."
"Oh, I do," he said, his voice like smoke and velvet. "You're the girl who never stopped fighting even when the world broke you. The girl who watched everything she loved burn and still walked through the ashes with her chin raised."
His hand hovered near hers, but he didn't touch her.
"You're not weak, Vivienne," he said. "You're dangerous. And they're terrified of what you'll become if you stop being afraid."
She stared at him, heart hammering.
And in that moment, something inside her shifted.
Not trust.
Not forgiveness.
But the first spark of fire