Second Chance, I Abandoned Everyone Who Betrayed Me

The words hit like a slap. Cordelia's smile froze mid-curve, and the smugness on Noelle's face shattered into open panic. “How could you do this to me, Vivienne?” “Leslie is the father of the baby I'm carrying! Are you trying to kill me……” Cordelia's composure cracked： “Vivienne! How many times do I have to tell you? Noelle and Leslie are already husband and wife in every way that matters. Even if you don't like Mr. Simmons, you can't tear apart your own sister's happiness!” Crying, pleading, accusations, all tangled together at once. The living room dissolved into chaos. It was Aldric who finally reached his limit. His face went dark as granite, and his palm cracked against the table： “Enough!” He rose from the head of the table and turned to Tristram first, forcing a conciliatory smile： “Tristram, I'm afraid I've spoiled this girl rotten. She doesn't know when to hold her tongue. Please don't take it to heart.” “The arrangement stands. The Whitmore family will cover every expense for the wedding, consider it our apology for today's scene.” “You two go on ahead. I'll deal with this ungrateful daughter of mine.” Tristram and Leslie left one after the other. Only the four Whitmores remained in the living room. Aldric was drawing breath to lay into her when Vivienne spoke first： “Father, hear me out before you start.” “I'm not refusing Tristram because I want to steal Leslie from Noelle.” “I just remembered something you mentioned once. Grandpa has an old war buddy whose grandson runs a business empire at the border. People call him “the King of Hell”, and his influence is enormous.” “You've always wanted me to use the marriage contract Mother left behind, marry into that family, and rebuild ties with her side so you could leverage their resources to take the Whitmore Group to the next level.” “I've thought it over. You were right. I'll marry him.” In her previous life, she hadn't wanted her father exploiting her dead mother's connections. The first time he'd raised the idea, she had threatened to take her own life rather than agree. But this time around, she knew better. Her own strength was too small. She would use her mother's family to tear the Whitmore empire apart, and give her mother the justice she was owed. Aldric blinked. Then a sharp gleam lit his eyes, and every trace of anger drained from his body. “Good, good, good. My brilliant daughter. You've finally come to your senses. I'll send word to the Simmons family this afternoon and cancel the engagement.” “We'll still hold two weddings as planned. I'll personally make sure your match with that young man is handled flawlessly.” “This works out perfectly. That shipment I've been sitting on? Once you marry him, customs clearance and export will be a breeze.” Vivienne looked at the man who, in her last life, had treated her as nothing more than a bargaining chip. The last flicker of filial feeling inside her went cold and died. Her voice was perfectly even： “I have one more condition.” “I want every piece of my mother's trust fund as my dowry. And a hundred million dollars in cash on top of it.” Aldric's jaw tightened. He was silent for several seconds before he finally nodded. Vivienne walked out under the murderous glares of Cordelia and Noelle and found Tristram and Leslie still lingering by the front entrance. Neither looked pleased. Leslie spoke first： “What Noelle and I have is real. I'd sooner die than marry you.” “If I show up to that wedding and find you standing at the altar, don't blame me for walking out in front of every guest and humiliating the Whitmore name across all of Ridgeport.” Tristram, meanwhile, leaned against the door of his Maybach, a smile on his lips threaded with something unmistakably cruel： “Don't be naive, Vivienne. I won't let you ruin Noelle's happiness.” “The moment you rejected me in there, I had my people spread a little something through high society. Just enough to make sure you have no choice but to marry me.” Vivienne's heart slammed into her throat, dread pooling fast and thick： “What did you do?” Her alarm clearly pleased him. His smile widened, and he took his time answering： “I've already used AI to generate over a hundred photos of you and me in bed together. By now, every name worth knowing in Ridgeport has a copy.” “I'd say that makes me the only man alive who'd still marry a woman with a reputation like yours.”

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.

After leaving the Whitmore estate, Vivienne hailed a taxi and gave the driver her apartment address, then slumped against the back seat. Exhaustion hit her like a tide, dragging her under. Her eyelids were impossibly heavy. Her consciousness blurred with each bump in the road, dimming bit by bit, until it gave out entirely and she plunged into darkness. She didn't know how long she'd been out when a bone-deep cold yanked her awake. Her eyes opened slowly. Her vision swam for a few seconds before it sharpened, and what she saw above her wasn't the ceiling of a taxi. It was the exposed rafters of an abandoned factory. She tried to move on instinct, but her wrists were bound tight with coarse rope and hoisted overhead. She jerked her head down to look, and her pupils contracted. She was dangling at least twelve feet off the ground. Her heart slammed against her ribs. The acrophobia hit instantly, her legs shaking beyond her control, cold sweat breaking out across her forehead and down her spine, soaking through her thin dress. “Someone! Help!” The cry tore out of her before she could think. It echoed through the cavernous space and died unanswered. She gulped air in ragged breaths, forcing herself to stay calm, her panicked gaze sweeping the factory floor. That was when she saw Noelle, tied to a support column. The unconscious woman's eyelids fluttered at the sound of Vivienne's voice, and she began to stir. Vivienne realized they must have both been kidnapped. But Noelle had been taken to the hospital by Tristram and Leslie. With both of them watching over her, how had she ended up here? Before Vivienne could work it out, Noelle moved. Thrashing in apparent panic, she struggled against her bindings. Within moments, the ropes came loose. Spotting Vivienne suspended in the air, she looked around frantically for a way to get her down： “Hold on, sis! I'll get you down!” Vivienne stared at the rope holding her up. It looped through a pulley on the ceiling and disappeared somewhere out of sight. Every instinct told her this wasn't what it seemed. “Stay back!” Her voice was taut, urgent, but the words had barely left her mouth when Noelle stepped onto something on the factory floor, a mechanism half-hidden in the grime. “Click.” A small, precise sound. The unmistakable trigger of a mechanism. The next second, the rope gave way. Weightlessness seized her and Vivienne dropped straight down. Her heart lurched into her throat. The memory of falling off that cliff in her last life crashed over her all at once, and she couldn't even scream before her body slammed into a foam mat with a dull, sickening thud. She wasn't dead. But the thin padding wasn't nearly enough to absorb a twelve-foot fall. Agony exploded from her shin. She heard the bone snap from inside her own body, and her vision went black. She nearly passed out on the spot. Then she heard laughter. Noelle stood a few feet away, hands on her hips, doubled over with it. “Oh my God, sis, the look on your face just now! Did you actually think we'd been kidnapped?” “Relax. I was just messing with you. A little scare, that's all. You shouldn't have pushed me back at the house.” Vivienne lay on the filthy mat, shaking from the pain, unable to move. She lifted her head with effort. Under the dim yellow light, a figure stepped out of the shadows. Tristram. “There was a mat to catch you. Quit the act.” “Noelle's young. She likes to play around. It was just a prank, nothing serious. She only wanted to teach you a lesson for pushing her at the estate.” “I've always been frail, so I can't exactly carry you. Pull yourself together and get up on your own.” Frail. The word hit her, and Vivienne actually laughed. Right. He'd always been frail. So frail he sometimes needed a wheelchair to get around. So frail he couldn't stand for long. So frail that every unmarried woman in Ridgeport avoided him like the plague. Funny, then, how he'd sprinted across the room to catch Noelle at the Whitmore estate. How he'd hauled Vivienne out of her own apartment and dragged her to the hospital to make Noelle feel better. No sign of frailty then. He'd been performing for her since the last life. It was nothing but the same tired lie he'd never bothered to retire. Blood kept pooling from the wound. Vivienne's vision blurred, and her consciousness ebbed like a retreating tide, pulling away inch by inch. In the last second before everything went dark, she thought she heard a voice： “Vivienne! Don't you dare die!” It sounded like Tristram. But that was impossible. Tristram Simmons would never care whether she lived or died. It had to be her mind playing tricks.

The next time consciousness found her, Vivienne felt herself lying on a gurney that jolted with every turn. And through the haze, she heard Tristram's voice. “While she's in surgery, go ahead and remove her uterus.” “She nearly caused Noelle to miscarry. This is the price she pays. I'll be marrying her soon enough, so I can take responsibility.” “Whether she has children or not makes no difference to me. It's not as if I actually love her. But she's my only candidate for a wife, so I won't discard her over something this trivial.” Vivienne lay on the gurney, trembling so hard her teeth rattled. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were heavy as lead, refusing to lift no matter how desperately she willed them. She wanted so badly to tell him. Their engagement had been canceled. He was not her fiancé. And even if he were, he had no right to make decisions about her body. The gurney kept moving. She felt herself being wheeled into the operating room, the surgical lights blazing through her closed lids, searing her eyeballs with white-hot pain. Maybe it was the sheer ferocity of wanting to survive, of refusing to let anyone strip away her right to be a mother. In the last second before the anesthesia mask descended over her nose and mouth, she summoned every scrap of strength left in her body and forced her eyes open. “No! Don't touch my uterus!” “However much Tristram paid you, I'll double it. Our engagement was canceled. He'll never know, and he won't come after you.” “But if you go through with it, the first thing I do when I wake up is drag you into court!” The operating room went still. The lead surgeon was silent for a long moment, then finally nodded. Three days later, Vivienne woke from the coma. The hospital room was quiet. Her leg was encased in a cast, and the pain had dulled to nothing. But the terror of plummeting from that height would follow her for the rest of her life. Through Noelle's social media, she saw her half-sister trying on wedding dresses. Leslie stood at her side. And there in the corner of one photo was Tristram, apparently helping her choose a veil. A cold, thin smile pulled at the corner of Vivienne's mouth. Noelle had been right about one thing: Tristram really was her loyal little lapdog. The woman he loved was getting married to another man, and there he was, eagerly tagging along to pick out her gown. That level of devotion was almost impressive. Meanwhile, her own messages held several unread texts from Tristram, each one a photo of a different wedding dress. It seemed that while selecting gowns for Noelle, he had picked out a few for Vivienne as well, for her to choose from. She closed her phone without replying. She wasn't marrying him. What would she need a wedding dress for? The days in the hospital passed with unexpected calm. Aside from her daily physical therapy sessions, Vivienne spent most of her time propped against the headboard, carving wood. It was a gift for her future husband. She hadn't touched a carving knife in years, and her hands were clumsy. She went through several failed attempts before she finally got it right. The day she finished happened to be the day of her discharge. That morning, her lawyer sent a message: the evidence for the lawsuit against Tristram over the AI-generated deepfakes was nearly complete. Tristram would likely receive a court summons within the next couple of days. Everything was falling into place. It would have been perfect, if Tristram hadn't shown up at the hospital to ruin it. He arrived carrying a bouquet of fresh lilies. He set them on the nightstand, and his gaze fell on the discarded carvings scattered nearby. “You made these?” A flicker of surprise crossed his face, then the corner of his mouth curved upward. “For me?” Before Vivienne could answer, Tristram had already swept every last carving into his pocket, his voice carrying a rare note of warmth： “You're barely recovered. No need to exhaust yourself over this. The gift can wait until after the wedding. I'm in no rush.” The wedding date was almost upon them, and Tristram still had no idea it had been called off. Vivienne drew a slow breath and decided to tell him the truth before she left：“My father didn't tell you……” But before she could finish, Tristram cut her off. “Right, there's something I came to tell you. Noelle stopped by your apartment a few days ago. She said she wanted to set up a surprise for when you got out of the hospital, sort of an apology for that prank. She admits she took it too far.” “But while she was hanging up the string lights, she accidentally shorted the wiring. The apartment caught fire. By the time the fire department got there, the blaze had already burned through most of it. Nothing inside survived.” The world went silent. A high-pitched ringing flooded Vivienne's ears. She didn't care that she was still in a hospital gown. She didn't care about the searing pain in her left leg. She grabbed her crutch and lurched out of the room. When the cab pulled up to her building, all that greeted her was a blackened shell of debris. Every photograph she had kept of her mother, every last memento wrapped and tucked away, had been reduced to ash. Vivienne's lips moved, but no sound came out. She thought she would cry. She didn't. It was as though every tear she possessed had been wrung out of her across two lifetimes of humiliation and hurt. She scooped up a handful of ash, watching the black dust sift through her fingers with an expression that held nothing at all. Inside her chest, there was only a hollow where something used to be. A line of car horns sounded from the street below. Vivienne rose like a machine, braced herself on the crutch, and limped to the window. She looked down. A convoy of black luxury sedans glided into the main drive of the complex and parked in a neat row beneath her building. Her phone rang. It was her father. “Vivienne, you're being discharged today, correct? The convoy from the border is here to pick you up. I had them come straight to your apartment. Go with them, and don't cause any trouble.” “Your mother's trust fund, plus a hundred million in cash, will transfer to your account automatically once you arrive at the border.” Vivienne climbed into the convoy like a marionette on strings. As the familiar skyline of Ridgeport shrank in the rearview mirror, she felt nothing but a terrifying, crystalline calm. Goodbye, Ridgeport. Every last person who had hurt her would answer for it. She would make sure they paid what they owed. Every single one.