The Vale Gallery stood like a shrine to perfection in the heart of the city—white stone columns, floor-to-ceiling windows, a marble foyer that echoed with the soft clicks of designer heels. But beneath its curated elegance lived something much darker.
Vivienne stepped through its grand entrance, dressed in a deep plum dress that kissed her curves and whispered danger. Her honey-brown eyes scanned the crowd—socialites, collectors, politicians. All sipping champagne under crystal chandeliers, all smiling too much.
Damien stood at her side, sharp in a black suit and silk tie, his presence cool and magnetic. He hadn't spoken much on the drive. Neither had she. The air between them had changed since the truth of his father came to light—less fragile, more... loaded.
"Are you sure this is wise?" he asked, his voice low.
"No," she replied. "But it's necessary."
The documents from the hidden drawer were locked away, but the names within them were etched into her mind—patrons of this very gallery. People who had turned Rosemoor into a front. Tonight, she intended to look them in the eye.
A woman approached—tall, blonde, blood-red lipstick and a gown that cost more than a small car.
"Darling Damien," she purred, kissing his cheek. "You didn't say you were bringing a date."
"She's not my date," he replied smoothly. "She's the reason this city isn't asleep at the wheel."
The woman turned her gaze to Vivienne, eyes glittering. "Vivienne D'Arcy. I thought you'd left the country."
"Came back," Vivienne said, offering her hand. "Seems I had unfinished business."
The woman didn't shake it. Just smiled. "Don't we all?"
Her name was Celeste Rowe, and Vivienne remembered her from the ledgers—multiple donations from a dummy charity. She was dangerous, charming, and connected to nearly every name on the list.
After she disappeared into the crowd, Vivienne leaned toward Damien. "She's laundering through the Rowe Foundation. I saw it."
"I know," he said. "She's also your godmother."
Vivienne's breath caught.
"What?"
Damien nodded. "Ask your mother. Oh... right."
She felt the floor tilt under her heels. "Did my father know?"
"He suspected. But he kept her close. As they all did."
Vivienne clenched her jaw and turned her gaze back to the crowd. "I need air."
Damien followed her through the rear of the gallery, past security, into the private collection hall—a darkened space lined with paintings too priceless for the public eye. Here, everything was quiet.
"You're shaking," Damien said.
"I'm furious," she snapped. "There's a difference."
He stepped closer. "You think I don't know how this feels? Finding out the people who raised you are liars in silk?"
She turned to him. "You lied too."
His jaw tightened. "I never lied about what mattered."
"And what's that?" she whispered.
"You."
The silence between them stretched.
In the low light, his green eyes softened. His hand reached up to brush her hair back behind her ear.
"You terrify me," he said. "Because you're everything I was taught to destroy."
"And you..." her voice broke, "you're everything I was warned about."
They stood so close now, breath mingling, hearts in chaos.
"But I'm still here," she said.
"So am I," he replied.
And then, just as their lips hovered near collision, a sharp click echoed through the hall.
A gun cocking.
They turned.
At the far end of the gallery stood a man in a navy coat and gloves, face partially obscured, gun raised directly at Vivienne.
"D'Arcy," he said. "Step away from the Vale boy."