Vivienne Ainsley had spent five years imagining what it would feel like to come home.
She never imagined it would feel like this.
The Ainsley estate looked the same as when she'd left, massive, gold-lit windows, guards at every corner, marble fountains spraying water as they existed purely to impress strangers. Nothing had changed.
Except her.
The moment she stepped into the foyer, the noise hit her like a wave—laughter, music, voices repeating her name like she was some rare artifact finally returned to its museum.
"Vivienne! You're glowing!"
"You've grown so tall!"
"The Ainsley princess is back!"
She forced a smile as someone kissed her cheek. She didn't remember half these people. They didn't care about her. They cared about her surname.
Her father claimed it was a welcome-home celebration.
But every smile felt scripted. Every hug felt rehearsed. Every compliment felt like someone checking the price tag on her.
Vivienne tightened her grip around her champagne flute, the stem digging into her palm. She hadn't slept in two days. Jet lag clawed at her skull. All she wanted was her old room, her old bed, and silence.
But instead—
" Her engagement can be announced next month."
She froze.
Her mother's voice floated through the hallway, sharp and elegant as always. Vivienne stepped behind one of the massive pillars, hiding like a child. The laughter around her blurred into a low hum.
Engagement?
So soon?
"She's twenty-two now," her father said, his tone casual. "Perfect age. And the Stanford heir has been waiting patiently enough."
Another man laughed. "Pretty, obedient, quiet, your daughter is every elite family's dream."
Vivienne's stomach twisted violently.
Obedient.
Like she didn't have a will.
Like she didn't have a life.
Like she wasn't standing ten feet away, hearing every word clearly.
Her fingers trembled. She placed the glass down, afraid she'd drop it. Her breathing faltered, shallow and sharp.
She had run away at eighteen—away from their plans, away from their expectations, away from the boy she loved.
And somehow, after all these years, she had returned just to be… sold off?
A transaction.
A business deal.
A daughter wrapped in silk and handed to the highest bidder.
Her chest tightened until she felt she couldn't breathe.
The room was spinning slightly. The chandelier lights blurred like stars melting. Someone brushed past her and didn't even notice the panic on her face.
Vivienne swallowed hard, blinking rapidly.
She shouldn't have come back.
She wasn't ready.
She would never be ready.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady it, when she heard a voice behind her.
"Vivienne?"
Her heart lurched violently.
No.
Not now.
Not him.
She knew that voice too well. She had memorized it at sixteen. She had tried to unhear it at eighteen. She had failed every year after.
Vivienne turned slowly.
Silas Vexley stood there, taller than she remembered, dressed in a dark suit that made him look older, sharper, more… heartbreaking. His hair was a little longer, his eyes a little more tired, but the warmth—they were still there. The same warmth that had once convinced her she could trust him with her soul.
His family stood behind him—Mr. and Mrs. Vexley, smiling warmly, was happy to see her back.
But Silas wasn't looking at them.
He was looking at her. Only her.
For a second—just a second—the world stopped spinning.
Then reality slammed into her chest again.
The last time she had loved him, she heard him tell someone he only dated rich girls. That he liked "high-maintenance types." That he preferred girls with money.
She was eighteen. Stupid. Ready to confess.
She had run instead.
The memory burned.
Silas took a hesitant step toward her, hope flickering in his eyes like he'd been waiting for this moment for years.
"Viv…" His voice cracked, just barely. "You're back."
Vivienne's throat tightened. No. She refused to cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of the boy who unknowingly shattered her.
She smoothed her face into the coldest expression she could summon.
"Yes," she said. "I returned."
Silas blinked, taken aback by her tone. He tried again, softer this time, almost pleading:
"I wanted to—"
"Don't," she cut him off.
It came out colder than she intended. Or maybe exactly as she intended. He froze, swallowing once, jaw tightening.
Behind him, his mother shifted awkwardly. His father looked concerned.
Silas didn't look away.
He looked… hurt.
But that was his problem, not hers.
She stepped to the side, trying to slip past him, but he blocked her gently, not touching her, just standing in her path.
"Vivienne," he repeated, voice low, "Can I talk to you for a second?"
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
Why was he doing this? Why couldn't he let her leave? Why did he still look at her like she hadn't broken him by disappearing?
"Silas," she said with ice in her tone, "move."
He didn't.
Not immediately.
He studied her face, searching for the girl he used to know—the one who cried into his hoodie when she failed a math test, who spent afternoons in his family's bakery kneading dough badly just to be near him, who told him she'd never leave.
But that girl was dead.
He finally stepped aside.
"Right," he whispered. "Of course. Why would you want to talk to me now? The heir is now back."
The softness in his voice cracked something inside her chest, but she held the emotion down like drowning it under ice.
She forced herself to walk past him without looking back.
The moment she moved, whispers buzzed through the hall:
"Is that the only daughter of Ainsley?"
"No wonder they kept her hidden, she is too beautiful."
"She has a different vibe."
"Does she know Silas Vexley? She must have known him from their cakes. Vexley has the best cakehouse in the town."
Her parents' voices floated again:
"We'll finalize the engagement details by next month."
Vivienne's feet stopped working.
Her lungs refused to draw air.
Her vision blurred again.
The room suddenly felt like it was shrinking, the walls inching closer, the chandelier lights stabbing her eyes.
She had to get out. Now.
But before she could escape, her father spotted her across the room.
He raised his glass and called loudly:
"Vivienne! Come here. We're discussing your future."
Future.
The future that wasn't hers.
Something inside her snapped so violently she almost staggered.
She blinked, fighting back tears she could no longer swallow down.
Her lip trembled.
Her hands shook.
The pressure behind her ribcage felt like it would crack a bone.
Silas saw it. His eyes widened. He took a step toward her instinctively.
But Vivienne turned away first—fast, desperate, humiliated and hurried down the hallway, heels clicking too quickly across the marble.
Her breath hitched. Her throat closed. Her mascara blurred at the edges of her vision.
She pushed past another servant, almost colliding with a waiter.
Just one more step
One more
One
She reached the back terrace door, shoved it open, and stumbled outside into the cold night air.
Only when the wind hit her face did she collapse against the railing, gripping it so hard her knuckles turned white.
Her breath shook uncontrollably.
Hot tears spilled before she could stop them.
She hadn't cried in years.
But she broke now—quietly, painfully, like her heart was cracking open after being held shut too long.
Inside, the celebration continued like nothing was wrong. Like she wasn't falling apart ten feet away.
Vivienne pressed a trembling hand to her chest and whispered the words that had been clawing at her since she stepped through the front door:
"I shouldn't have come back."
She didn't know Silas had followed her.
She didn't know he was standing just inside the doorway, watching her break, his own heart twisting painfully at the sight.
She didn't know he whispered her name—so softly even the night couldn't carry it.