Vivienne's pupils contracted to pinpoints.

She fumbled for her phone with shaking hands. The second the screen lit up, the flood hit. Messages, dozens of them, cascading one after another until the notifications blurred together.

Her closest friends had reached out, worried, asking questions. There were so many messages she didn't even know where to begin explaining.

None of this had happened in her previous life.

Back then, she hadn't refused Tristram's proposal. His plan had gone off without a hitch, so smoothly he'd never needed this backup measure at all.

If she'd shown even the slightest resistance during that proposal, would she have seen his true face sooner? Would she have avoided dying the way she did?

She drew a long breath to steady herself. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her hands were calm as she typed out a message to her lawyer.

She forwarded every AI-fabricated photo her friends had sent her, asking him to bring in a forensic technician to confirm the images used deepfake face-swapping.

Then she instructed him to file a defamation lawsuit against Tristram once the evidence was locked down.

When all of that was done, Vivienne turned back to Leslie and held out her open palm：

“Give me back the carving I gave you. I made that by hand for the man I'd marry someday. You don't deserve it.”

Leslie's expression soured, but he still reached into his pocket without argument, pulled out his car keys, and unhooked the small wooden carving that had hung there all this time. He tossed it back to her.

“You really are petty. You think I care about some worthless trinket?”

He turned and left without another word, face dark. Beside him, Tristram instinctively reached out his hand, assuming Vivienne was about to give the carving to him.

His hand closed on nothing. Vivienne dropped the carving into the nearest trash can.

“It's been tainted. Not good enough for my future husband.”

She stepped around Tristram and walked away without a backward glance, without seeing the look on his face.

It was two in the morning when a deafening crash jolted her out of sleep.

The front door of her apartment had been kicked in from the outside.

Before Vivienne could react, the covers were ripped away. An ice-cold hand locked around her wrist and dragged her off the bed.

She screamed, thrashing against the grip.

She wore nothing but a thin nightgown. Half-dressed, she was hauled into the living room, and only then, by the moonlight spilling through the window, did she see who it was.

“Tristram, have you lost your mind?”

Her voice shook. Tristram didn't answer. His face was blank and cold as he dragged her toward the door, forced her outside, and shoved her into a black SUV.

The vehicle tore through the empty streets and finally stopped in front of a private clinic.

Vivienne was dragged through the corridors and strapped to a hospital bed.

“Tristram, what the hell are you doing!”

He stood in the doorway, watching her with a flat, dead stare：

“Noelle's heart condition flared up. She needs heart's blood from a close relative to save her life.”

“She had an episode because you upset her today. You owe her this. It's just a little blood from the heart. You don't have a problem with that, do you?”

Vivienne's eyes went wide：

“What are you talking about? 'Heart's blood' curing heart disease? There is zero medical basis for that!”

But Tristram turned and walked out as if he hadn't heard a single word, heading to the next room to check on Noelle.

As they wheeled her toward the operating room, Vivienne passed the open door of that neighboring room and heard her father asking Tristram：

“Tristram, will this really help with Noelle's condition?”

The man's voice came slow and unhurried, like a devil whispering at her ear：

“Don't worry, Mr. Whitmore. Noelle's illness is really more psychological than physical.”

“She got upset because of what Vivienne did today, and the stress triggered the episode.”

“Once I take Vivienne's heart's blood and settle the score for Noelle, she'll feel better. And when her mood improves, her heart will follow.”

A single tear slid from the corner of her eye. She watched the operating room doors slam shut in front of her, and all the fight drained out of her body.

So Tristram knew. He knew heart's blood couldn't treat a heart condition. All he wanted was to punish her, to make her pay for upsetting Noelle.

But the next second, she saw the doctor approaching with surgical instruments and no syringe of anesthesia in sight, and the terror flooded back into her eyes.

The doctor must have read her face. Pity flickered in his gaze as he spoke：

“I'm sorry, Ms. Whitmore. Mr. Simmons gave us explicit orders not to use any anesthetic on you. There's nothing we can do.”

“But I've been doing this for over thirty years. I'll be as gentle as I can.”

The blade parted her skin and every nerve screamed the sensation straight to her brain. Vivienne's shriek tore through the room.

She felt the needle push directly into her heart, and her mind nearly broke apart.

As the blood left her body, each breath grew shallower than the last, her awareness dissolving at the edges.

Finally she slipped under, and with the darkness came the only mercy she'd get: release from a pain carved into the marrow of her soul.

When Vivienne opened her eyes again, the hospital room was empty. The sting of disinfectant burned her sinuses, and the wound on her chest throbbed with a dull, persistent ache.

She picked up her phone from the nightstand. No missed calls. Not a single message.

She opened her social media feed and saw a post Noelle had made the day before: a selfie clutching a bouquet of flowers, captioned：【Discharged! Thanks everyone for the well wishes】.

So they had left long ago, all of them, and simply abandoned her here to fend for herself.

Vivienne dragged her battered body through the discharge paperwork, called a car, and went back to her apartment alone.

The front door had been repaired, probably on Tristram's orders, but the inside was still wrecked. Drag marks from where he had hauled her across the floor to the living room days ago were still visible on the hardwood.

Vivienne stood in the doorway and stared for a long moment. Then, without a word, she began cleaning up. While she was at it, she packed a suitcase for her new life at the border.

At the very bottom of the closet she found the gift Leslie had given her for her eighteenth birthday: a crystal necklace. She had treasured it all these years, planning to wear it on their wedding day.

But in her last life and in this one, Leslie had never once intended to marry her.

Vivienne hesitated only briefly before dropping the necklace into the trash.

She kept digging and found the fountain pen her father had tossed her way when she got into college.

She had learned later it was just a sample gift from a visiting business partner, something Aldric had passed along without a second thought and probably forgotten the next day. Still, it was one of the few things he had ever given her, so she had kept it.

This time she didn't hesitate. She threw the pen straight into the garbage bag.

Beneath everything else lay a few yellowed photographs, some of the last pictures of her and her mother together. The negatives were long gone.

She tucked those carefully into her bag.

When she was done, Vivienne tied the garbage bag shut and hauled it downstairs.

On her way back, she spotted a familiar Maybach parked outside the building.

Her steps faltered. Tristram climbed out of the back seat.

He looked her up and down, and once he was satisfied she was in one piece, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He waved a hand behind him.

Several bodyguards in black stepped out of a second car, each one carrying oversized luxury gift boxes.

At Tristram's command they filed inside, one after another, and stacked the boxes throughout Vivienne's apartment.

“What is this supposed to mean, Tristram?”

Vivienne watched the gift boxes pile up in the living room, on the couch, even across the dining table.

The apartment she had just finished cleaning was suddenly overflowing again.

“Consider it compensation. For what happened the other day. I know you were wronged.”

“Noelle is my bottom line. Once we're married, as long as it doesn't involve her, I'll have your back in everything. You have my word.”

Vivienne lifted her gaze to his face. Maybe because she had given up on him long ago, nothing he said could hurt her anymore.

Tristram always believed a soft word and a pile of expensive things could fix anything.

No matter how deep the wound, she was supposed to choose forgiveness.

He was wrong. This time, she would never forgive him again.

Vivienne watched in silence as the bodyguards finished. She had considered stopping them.

But then she thought about how in a month, after the wedding, she would be living at the border. This apartment and every bad memory it held would be sold off.

Let him do whatever he wanted. She was past caring.

“Are you done? Then leave. I just got out of the hospital. I need to rest.”

Something flickered behind Tristram's eyes when she brought it up again, but it passed in an instant.

“Actually, there's another reason I came.”

“Tonight is Noelle's birthday gala. You're her sister. You're expected to be there.”

Vivienne's fingers curled inward. In the decade and more since her mother's death, not a single person had remembered her birthday.

Noelle's, on the other hand, was a lavish event every year. And every year Vivienne was dragged along as a prop, an afterthought for the guests to snicker at.

She had endured it in her last life. She refused to endure it in this one.

“I'm not going.”

Tristram's voice went cold the second the words left her mouth.

“Half the elite in Ridgeport are invited to this gala. If you don't show up, what will people think of her?”

“You don't get a say in this.”

The bodyguards seized Vivienne by the arms and forced her into the back of the Maybach. The car headed straight for the most exclusive hotel in Ridgeport.

By the time they arrived, they were already running late. Tristram brought her along to present his gift to Noelle: a limited-edition handbag.

Vivienne recognized it instantly. Every single item he had dumped at her apartment that afternoon was the purchase-minimum bundle for that bag.

Her knuckles went white around her clenched fists. So from the very beginning, even his apology had never truly been meant for her.

While she stood there, frozen, Noelle called out to her：

“Vivienne, what did you get me for my birthday?”

She had been dragged here without warning. When would she have had time to prepare a gift?

Noelle seemed to read the predicament on her face. Her eyes darted, and a bright idea struck：

“Did you forget my birthday, sis? Oh well, I won't make it hard on you. How about you go up on stage and dance for me instead? Think of it as your gift.”

Vivienne looked at the man beside her. A faint smile lingered between his brows, his eyes fixed on Noelle without blinking. He had no intention of stepping in.

Vivienne turned to leave. Somewhere behind her, the chatter among the guests had already died down, and every pair of eyes in the room was watching.

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

Noelle's breathing went ragged on cue, and she collapsed against Tristram：

“Tristram, my heart……it hurts so bad”

Vivienne had barely taken one step before a hand clamped around her wrist and yanked her back.

She turned and met Tristram's eyes. There was nothing in them.

“Vivienne, your mother is buried at Westhill Memorial Cemetery. Isn't that right?”

Her pupils contracted. Her whole body went rigid.

She stared at Tristram as if seeing him for the very first time.

She remembered, in her past life, not long after their wedding, she had taken him to visit her mother's grave.

That day he had knelt before the headstone, held her hand, and spoken with absolute solemnity：

“Ma'am, you can rest easy. I'll take good care of Vivienne.”

She had looked at the firm line of his profile and counted herself lucky, grateful she had seen through Leslie in time and married a good man instead.

But in her last life Tristram hadn't saved her when it mattered. And in this life, he was threatening to scatter her mother's ashes, all because she refused to perform like a trained animal for Noelle's amusement and make Noelle look bad.

Vivienne's eyes burned red, and the grief swelled until it filled her entire chest.

But she did not let a single tear fall. She wrenched free of Tristram's grip, turned, and walked toward the stage.

The murmurs from the audience drove into her like needles.

Vivienne closed her eyes, rose onto the tips of her toes, and began to spin across the cold floor.

With every turn, one thought carved itself deeper into her mind.

She would make them pay.

Every last one of them.

The music ended. Vivienne had no memory of how she made it off the stage.

The wound on her chest had torn open during the violent spins, pain seeping through her until cold sweat beaded across her forehead.

But she swallowed it down, cutting quickly through the crowd, turning into the terrace at the far end of the corridor. The first thing she did was make a call, paying someone to move her mother's ashes out of Westhill Memorial Cemetery in secret.

This time, she would tell no one where her mother was buried. From now on, no one would ever use her mother against her again.

Vivienne gripped her phone so tightly her nails dug into her palm.

She couldn't understand it. In this life, she had never once told Tristram where her mother was buried. How had he found out?

She stayed on the terrace for a long time, turning it over and over in her mind, but no answer came.

When the gala began winding down, she decided to leave.

She didn't say goodbye to anyone. She just kept her head down and walked fast.

But at the end of the corridor, Noelle blocked her path.

She was leaning against the wall, clearly waiting for her.

When she saw Vivienne approaching, Noelle's lips curled upward, her smile dripping with undisguised malice.

“Your mother couldn't keep Dad, and you're just like her. The worthless spawn of a worthless woman. Your men, whether it's Tristram or Leslie, their hearts belong to me.”

“Tristram is nothing but my lapdog. I actually felt sorry for you, thought I'd toss you a man, let you marry into the Simmons family. But you didn't even want that. You just had to pick the frontier, that godforsaken place where they eat people alive.”

Noelle covered her mouth and laughed：

“When you're married off and they're making your life a living hell, don't come crawling back crying for Daddy to save you.”

Vivienne's hands clenched into fists at her sides. Looking at that vile face, she couldn't stop herself. Her hand came up and cracked across Noelle's cheek.

“You're right about one thing. Like mother, like daughter. Yours was the other woman, and so are you.”

The sharp crack of the slap echoed down the corridor. Noelle's head snapped to the side, a bright red handprint blooming across her pale cheek.

“You little bitch, you hit me?”

She shrieked and swung her hand back to return the blow.

But Vivienne caught her wrist, twisted, and shoved. Noelle stumbled back two steps in her heels, barely keeping her balance.

The rage inside her had nowhere to go. She glanced over her shoulder at the staircase behind her, and a calculating gleam flashed through her eyes. She took several steps backward and threw herself down.

“Aah——”

Her scream was shrill, piercing, her body crumpling like a dead leaf toward the bottom of the stairs.

“Noelle!”

Two figures bolted toward her at the same time. Tristram and Leslie reached out almost simultaneously, catching Noelle from either side.

Vivienne, who had instinctively reached out to grab Noelle, lost her footing from the momentum. Her balance gave way, and she tumbled down the stairs.

Pain.

Everything hurt.

It felt like every bone in her body had shattered. The old wound on her chest split open, blood soaking through.

She tried to push herself up, but the pain drained every ounce of strength from her limbs, and she couldn't manage it.

She lifted her head and looked up the stairs. Leslie was holding Noelle, murmuring soft reassurances. Tristram stood beside them, face cold, calling an ambulance.

By the time she finally braced herself against the wall and got to her feet, all three swept past her without a glance, as if she didn't exist.

Vivienne watched their retreating backs. A split second later, a hand struck her hard across the face.

A ringing filled her ears, and her father's voice came with it：

“You ungrateful wretch. You're about to be married off to the frontier. Can't you behave yourself for once?”

“Once you're there, remember this: keep your head down, don't bring trouble on this family, make them happy, and find ways to bring us more business.”

“I didn't raise you all these years just so you could make my life harder.”

Aldric let out a cold snort and walked away.

Vivienne stood where she was. The corridor was empty. She was the only one left.

She reached up and wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth, then limped out of the hotel.

Once she was married off to the frontier, she would make sure to mention the Whitmore family often.

But not a single kind word. She would lay bare every dirty, rotten thing they had done over the years.

Her father dreamed of expanding overseas. As long as she drew breath at the border, he would never see that dream come true.