The VIP elevator of Sterling Plaza descended with a silent, breathless speed. VivianShen watched the floor numbers plummet, her reflection in the polished steel doors perfectly composed. Her white silk suit remained immaculate, her heartbeat steady. She had just looked the devil in the eye and watched him blink.
As the elevator chimed and the doors parted at the grand lobby, she stepped forward—only to find her path abruptly blocked.
Seraphina Frost stood waiting to ascend. She was clad in a garish pink tweed ensemble that screamed for attention, clutching a limited-edition handbag like a shield. For five years, Seraphina had played the role of the tragic, supportive fiancée, waiting for Alaric to finally put a ring on her finger.
When Seraphina's eyes landed on Vivian, the color drained from her face so fast she looked like a wax corpse. Her jaw dropped, and the heavy leather bag slipped from her manicured fingers, hitting the marble floor with a resounding thud.
"Evangeline?" Seraphina gasped, her voice shrill. She stumbled backward, her Jimmy Choo heels catching on the edge of an ornate rug. She looked as though she had just seen a demon claw its way out of the Atlantic Ocean.
Vivian didn't pause. She stepped gracefully out of the elevator, her stilettos clicking with rhythmic, terrifying menace. She looked down at the pale, trembling woman, her expression a mask of aristocratic pity and boredom.
"I am afraid you have mistaken me for someone else," Vivian said smoothly. Her voice was a rich, smoky velvet that immediately drew the attention of the surrounding lobby guards and executives. "I am VivianShen. And you must be... Miss Frost. The eternal fiancée."
Seraphina shook her head wildly, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "No. No, you're dead. I saw the manifest! I know what happened on that plane!"
"Do you?" Vivian took a deliberate step closer.
The haunting scent of Shattered Blessing washed over Seraphina. The cold, aquatic notes triggered a violent, uncontrollable shiver in the other woman.
"How fascinating," Vivian purred. "Tell me, Miss Frost, what exactly do you know about planes falling from the sky?"
Seraphina clutched her throat, looking frantically around the lobby. People were staring. The polished, angelic facade she had painstakingly maintained for years was cracking in real-time. "You... you're a monster. A freak. Alaric! I need to see Alaric!"
"Mr. Sterling is currently indisposed," Vivian replied, her tone dripping with condescension.
She leaned in, her lips hovering just inches from Seraphina's ear. In a flawless, rapid-fire stream of Russian—a language Seraphina had famously failed to learn during Alaric's corporate expansion into Moscow—Vivian whispered a lethal promise.
"Мёртвые не говорят, Серафина. Но они помнят всё." (The dead don't speak, Seraphina. But they remember everything.)
Seraphina didn't understand the exact words, but she felt the icy, murderous intent behind them. She scrambled away, her chest heaving. Abandoning her bag on the floor, she bolted for the emergency stairwell, entirely too terrified to wait for the next elevator.
Vivian watched her flee, a cold, satisfied smile playing on her lips. She stepped neatly around the fallen handbag and walked toward the revolving doors. Outside, a sleek black Maybach was waiting at the curb.
Julian Vane sat in the back seat, reading a medical journal. He looked up as she slid into the luxurious leather interior. "You look radiant. I take it the meeting was productive?"
"I planted the seed," Vivian said, elegantly adjusting the cuffs of her silk suit. "And I just watered it. Seraphina is officially unraveling."
"Panic makes people careless," Julian noted, pouring her a crystal glass of sparkling water. "And Alaric?"
"He's bleeding. He knows I am Evangeline, but his logical brain refuses to accept it without hard evidence. He will tear his own empire apart trying to prove I exist." Vivian took a delicate sip, her eyes drifting to the tinted window. "Has Leo found the offshore accounts yet?"
"He breached the first layer of the Cayman Island shell companies twenty minutes ago," Julian smiled, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Your son is a terror, Vivian."
"He is his mother's vengeance," she corrected softly.
Back in the penthouse, Alaric was staring blankly at the wall when his heavy oak doors flew open. Seraphina burst in, weeping hysterically, her designer clothes rumpled and disheveled.
"Alaric! It's her! I swear it!" she shrieked, throwing her arms around him in a frantic embrace. "Evangeline! She's downstairs! She threatened me!"
Alaric stiffened. Slowly, firmly, he peeled Seraphina's arms off his chest. He looked at her tear-streaked face, involuntarily comparing it to the cold, untouchable majesty of VivianShen. For the first time in five years, Seraphina's tears didn't evoke a shred of sympathy in him. They only evoked exhaustion.
"Evangeline is dead, Seraphina," Alaric said, his voice completely hollow, echoing the very lie Vivian had just fed him. "You're hysterical."
"I am not crazy!" she screamed, her voice shrill enough to shatter the glass windows.
Alaric turned his back on her, walking toward the window to look down at the bustling street below. Somewhere in that concrete maze, the woman who wore his dead wife's face was walking free.
"No, you're not crazy," Alaric murmured to himself, his reflection ghostly against the glass. "But we are both about to be dragged to hell."