Chapter 2

Vivienne didn't cry until she reached the parking garage.

She sat in her Aston Martin, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, and let out a single, guttural sob that fogged the windshield.

Then she stopped. Wiped her eyes. And called Sloane.

Sloane Park picked up on the first ring. "Tell me who's dying."

"I need a divorce lawyer. The best. Tonight."

A pause. Then: "What did he do?"

"Naomi."

The silence on the other end lasted exactly two seconds. Then Sloane said, with the calm fury of a woman who kept a baseball bat in her trunk, "I'm picking you up in fifteen minutes. Don't move, don't drink, and don't delete anything on your phone."

"Sloane—"

"Fifteen minutes, Viv."

The line went dead.

Vivienne let her head fall back against the headrest. Through the concrete ceiling of the garage, she could still hear the muffled bass of the party music. Roman's party. The one she had spent three weeks planning — the catering, the guest list, the flowers he never noticed.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Naomi.

"No hard feelings, babe 💋 He was going to find out about us eventually. At least now you're free!"

Vivienne read it twice. Then she screenshotted it, forwarded it to Sloane, and blocked the number.

Free. Naomi had no idea what that word was about to cost her.

Seventeen minutes later, Sloane's black Range Rover screeched into the garage. The passenger door flew open before the car fully stopped.

Sloane Park: five-foot-ten, former prosecutor, current venture capitalist, and the only person alive who knew about the twins.

She took one look at Vivienne's face and said, "Get in. I already called Margaux Voss."

"The Margaux Voss? She charges fifty thousand just for a consultation."

"She owes me a favor. Apparently, I saved her cat once." Sloane floored the accelerator. "Also, I brought tequila."

Despite everything, Vivienne almost smiled.

At Sloane's penthouse, Margaux Voss was already waiting — a silver-haired woman in a black Chanel suit who looked like she ate corporate boards for breakfast.

"Mrs. Steele," Margaux began.

"Blackwell," Vivienne corrected. "I never legally changed my name."

Margaux's eyebrow rose a fraction — the closest she came to showing approval. "Smart. Now, walk me through the prenuptial agreement."

Vivienne did. Every clause. Every loophole Roman's lawyers had buried in the fine print.

The contract stated that if Vivienne initiated divorce without cause, Blackwell Capital would forfeit its shares in the Steele-Blackwell joint ventures. But if Roman was proven to have breached the fidelity clause—

"Then the penalty reverses," Margaux finished, a razor-thin smile forming. "He forfeits. Everything in the joint accounts, the real estate portfolio, and — my, my — a 15% stake in Steele Industries."

"The fidelity clause was his idea," Vivienne said bitterly. "He insisted on it to 'protect the family image.'"

Sloane let out a low whistle. "The arrogance."

"I have evidence," Vivienne continued. "Three hundred witnesses saw him tonight. And Naomi sent me a text practically confessing."

Margaux closed her folder. "Mrs. Blackwell, I don't usually say this to clients on night one, but — you're going to destroy him."

Vivienne stared at the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere out there, in a penthouse she'd decorated herself, Roman was probably still celebrating.

"Margaux, one more thing."

"Yes?"

"I have five-year-old twins. Roman doesn't know they exist."

The room went very still.

Margaux set down her pen. Sloane poured another shot of tequila.

"Well," Margaux said slowly, "that changes everything."