The phone's locked with a pattern, and I stare at the dots on the screen in frustration.
Who uses patterns anymore? It's all facial recognition and fingerprint sensors! Then again, the book was written several years ago.
I squint at the phone screen, tilting it this way and that under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Smudges. Fingerprints. Tiny trails of oil left behind by someone's—my?—fingertip. They crisscross the glass in a chaotic dance, but there has to be a pattern hidden within.
"Come on, Viv. You've got this."
My heart races as I trace potential paths with my eyes. Up, across, down? Or maybe it's a zigzag? The residue is heavier in some spots, worn away in others. I try to imagine the motion, the muscle memory that would leave such marks.
A flash of frustration burns through me. This should be easy. It's my phone, isn't it? But of course I'm not gifted with anything that would make assimilation easier—like book-Vivienne's memories.
Those would be real fucking nice about now.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The scent of expensive vanilla and floral perfume—mine, apparently—tickles my nose. When I open them again, I focus on the brightest smudges. They form a vague L-shape in the bottom left corner.
"Okay, let's start there."
My finger hovers over the first dot, trembling slightly. What if I'm wrong? How many attempts do I have before it locks me out completely? The thought of losing access to this potential lifeline makes my stomach churn.
I press down, drag my finger up and to the right. The path feels... right. Natural. Like my body remembers even if my mind doesn't. I complete the L-shape, then curve around to the top right corner.
The phone unlocks with a cheerful chime.
"Yes!"
Relief floods through me, followed quickly by a wave of curiosity. I tap the messaging app first, scrolling through conversations with numbers. Apparently she doesn't add everyone to her contact list.
Most messages are terse, business-like exchanges. Party RSVPs, appointment confirmations. Nothing to scream "close friend" or "confidante."
One with a name catches my eye: Charlotte. Who's Charlotte?
I open the thread, but it's disappointingly sparse. The last message is from weeks ago:
"Don't forget Mom's birthday dinner on Saturday. Try not to embarrass the family this time."
Sister. Probably also known as Dr. Graham.
I wince. Clearly, book-Vivienne and Charlotte aren't close. If I had a sister in the real world, would we have a similar relationship to them? Or would we be best friends?
Well, no point wondering about things that never happened.
Next, I check the call log. Knox's name dominates the list, almost always initiated by the original body, interspersed with a few business contacts. No Mom or Dad. No friends. It paints a lonely picture of the life I've stepped into.
I tap on the photo gallery, bracing myself. If I want to understand this Vivienne, I need to see the world through her eyes. Or rather, her camera lens.
The first few rows are exactly what I'd expect from a socialite's phone. Selfies in designer outfits, artfully arranged plates of food at high-end restaurants, group shots at charity galas. But as I scroll deeper, the tone shifts.
There's Knox, caught in candid moments. Sleeping peacefully, brow furrowed over paperwork, laughing at something off-camera. The composition is different in these—snapshots of intimacy but always from a difference. Like the photographer was trying to capture something precious without disturbing it.
My chest tightens. Book-Vivienne really did love Knox. It's all over these photos.
If she loved him, and he's this possessive over her—then why is their relationship so cold?
I keep scrolling, and my breath catches. It's a photo of a sunset over water, but something about it tugs at my memory. The angle of the light, the silhouette of trees along the shore. I've seen this before, but not through a phone screen.
"Lake Michigan," I whisper, the name rising unbidden to my lips. "But how...?"
A chill runs down my spine. This photo was taken from the exact spot where I used to sit with my family during summer vacations. A private moment from my old life, somehow captured in this new one.
And it isn't even a place accessible to the public. It's part of our family's land. How does Vivienne know about it?
My fingers shake as I close the gallery app. This is too much, too fast. I need answers, but I'm not sure I'm ready for what I might find.
I open the browser next, tapping on the search history. Most of the recent queries are innocuous: designer sales, local events, recipes for some fancy-sounding dishes. But as I scroll back further, a pattern emerges.
Werewolf mate bond.
Breaking a mate bond.
Divorce laws for supernatural creatures.
My heart pounds. So book-Vivienne was looking for a way out too. But why? She was the one who couldn't let go of Knox in the book. Why would she be trying to break the bond?
There's something I'm missing. Something more to their backstory, hidden between the metaphorical pages. I'm about to dig deeper into her search history when I hear footsteps in the hallway. They're heavy, purposeful, and unmistakable.
Knox is back.
Panic surges. I quickly close all the apps and lock the phone, setting it back on the nightstand just as the door swings open.
"My" husband fills the doorway, his presence overwhelming even from across the room. His eyes lock onto mine, then flick to the phone.
"Find what you were looking for?" His voice is low and dangerous, almost like he knew what I was looking at.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I was just checking the time."
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Someone please tell me why it sounds like my prison cell was just locked.
"Really?" he asks calmly.
"Um…" But before I can speak, Knox is there, looming over me. He reaches past me, grabbing the phone.
"Knox, wait—"
But it's too late. He's already unlocked it, his fingers moving in the exact pattern I'd just deciphered. Of course he knows it. He probably set it up in the first place.
I watch, heart in my throat; I didn't exit the search history when I turned off the display.
His finger moves slowly as he scrolls. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
"You've been busy," he says, voice deceptively calm. "Care to explain why you're suddenly so interested in divorce law?"
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I'm not sure if it's because the original Vivienne won't let me, or if it's because I'm stumped on how to explain the situation.
Seriously, a girl just wants to survive. Why does it have to be so damn hard?
Knox's eyes narrow at my silence. "Let me guess. Daddy dearest put you up to this? Trying to find a loophole in our arrangement?"
Huh? How the hell did "my" parents enter this picture?
"No, it's not—" I start, but he cuts me off with a harsh laugh.
"Save it, Vivienne. I thought we were past this. I thought you understood what's at stake here."
He tosses the phone onto the bed, the device bouncing slightly on the plush comforter, too far to reach. I resist the urge to snatch it back.
"Our bond isn't just some contract you can weasel your way out of," he continues, sitting on the bed as he reaches for my hand. Fire erupts at the contact, sizzling its way up my arm. "Just get it out of your head. We won't divorce."
Why is he even back, anyway?
But first, soothe the savage beast.
"Fine. I won't ask for a divorce." Not until I look into things a little more, anyway. The plot's gone haywire.
His face softens, and he squeezes my hand, linking our fingers together in loose affection. "Good girl."
His praise goes straight to the core of me, and I squeeze my thighs together with an awkward cough. "I thought you were going back to work."
"No." His fingertips fiddle, tapping and squeezing mine in absent movements as he leans closer. "I told my supervisor my mate needed me more than I realized. He gave me the week off."
As if someone of Knox's caliber needs permission to take a week off, but the original book's title is My Lover's a Secret Billionaire, so it tracks. Even if it's kind of ridiculous when you're living it
No, wait. More importantly… "The week?"
Fuck. Having him around for a week is going to make it impossible to gather the information I need.
"Is that a problem, wife?" His words are a soft purr, if purrs felt like knives being held to your throat.
Haha. Hah. Hah.
I'm so fucked.
"Nope," I lie through my teeth.