The heavy click of the laboratory's magnetic lock echoed like a gunshot in the pristine, sunlit space. Alaric Sterling stood blocking the only exit, his imposing frame casting a long, dark shadow across the white marble floor.
VivianShen did not flinch. She deliberately placed the glass pipette back into its rack, her movements as calm as a surgeon's. Her tailored black blazer and sheer Cervin stockings exuded an untouchable, lethal authority. She picked up a small crystal blotter, waving it gently through the air.
"Locking a woman in a room, Mr. Sterling?" Vivian mused, her smoky voice echoing off the glass walls. "Is this how the King of Aviation handles all of his corporate negotiations, or is this a special tactic reserved for women who refuse to bow to you?"
"There are no negotiations here," Alaric growled, taking a slow, predatory step forward. His stormy grey eyes were completely stripped of their usual cold boardroom calculation. What remained was a raw, agonizing desperation. "I paid ten million dollars for your time. And I am going to spend it tearing down this immaculate, Swiss-made facade."
Vivian turned to face him, leaning casually against the marble counter. "You are wasting your money. But if you insist on a show, please, proceed. Just try not to break any of my equipment. The Madagascar vanilla absolute on the table behind you is worth more than your average private jet."
Alaric closed the distance between them until the tips of his Italian leather shoes nearly touched her black Jimmy Choo stilettos. He was close enough that Vivian could feel the heat radiating from his chest, close enough to see the microscopic tremor in his clenched jaw.
"You think you can just walk into my city, wearing her face, wearing her scent, and play games with my sanity?" Alaric whispered, his voice vibrating with suppressed fury. He reached out, his large hand capturing her chin. His touch was forceful but strangely trembling, tilting her face up to meet his intense gaze. "Tell me you didn't die. Tell me how you survived the Atlantic."
Vivian's heart executed a painful, violent stutter against her ribs. For a fleeting second, the terrifying proximity of the man she had once worshipped threatened to crack her ice. But then she remembered the cold ocean water, the agonizing surgeries, and the sonogram he had ignored.
She did not pull away. Instead, she smiled—a chilling, razor-sharp expression.
"If I were your dead wife, Alaric," she purred, her breath ghosting across his lips, "why would I ever come back to a man who signed my death warrant for a woman in pink tweed?"
Alaric flinched as if she had struck him with a physical blow. His grip on her chin faltered.
Vivian seized the momentary weakness. She stepped gracefully out of his hold, picking up a vial of dark, crimson liquid. "You are obsessed with the past, Mr. Sterling. You want to believe I am your Evangeline because it would absolve you of your guilt. If she is alive, then you are not a murderer. You are just a tragic hero waiting for a reunion."
She stepped back into his space, holding the crimson vial between them.
"But I am not your absolution," Vivian said, her voice dropping to a lethal, venomous whisper. "I am VivianShen. And the woman you married? The quiet, pathetic girl who knitted you ties while you paraded Seraphina Frost around town? She died screaming in the dark, clutching her stomach as the freezing water filled her lungs."
The color completely drained from Alaric's face. He staggered back half a step, the air punched from his lungs. The mention of the water—the imagery of her final moments—shattered his formidable composure.
"Stop," he choked out, his hands gripping the edge of the marble counter to keep himself standing.
"You wanted the truth," Vivian continued relentlessly, her eyes blazing with cold fire. "The truth is, Evangeline Thorne was nothing to you until she was gone. You don't love her, Alaric. You love the ghost you created. You love the pain, because it is the only real emotion you have left."
She placed the crimson vial on the table and picked up her leather portfolio. "Your ten million dollars has bought you this consultation. My team will send the scent profiles for your fleet by tomorrow morning. Now, unlock my door and get out of my laboratory."
Alaric stared at her, his chest heaving, his world entirely unmoored. He had come here to break her disguise, but she had systematically dismantled his soul instead. Without a word, he turned, his hand shaking violently as he swiped his palm against the exit sensor.
The heavy glass door slid open. As Alaric walked into the corridor, he looked like a king who had just lost his entire kingdom.
Vivian watched him leave, her posture rigid until the elevator doors closed. Once she was alone, she finally allowed herself to take a shaking breath, leaning heavily against the counter.
The war had truly begun. And the King was bleeding exactly where she had cut him.