"What the hell, Lu? I’m trying to be civil here and this is the thanks I get?"

The words tore out of my throat with the perfect blend of Hampton’s annoyance and high-society entitlement. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a frantic bird in a wire cage, but I didn’t let my voice waver. I stood my ground, my hand trembling under the weight of the five-carat lie on my finger.

Lucian froze. His hand was still clamped onto my shoulder, his fingers digging into the silk of my Dior dress, but the sheer audacity of my tone seemed to short-circuit his rage.

"You think I’m an idiot?" he hissed, though the volume dropped. The threat shifted from a roar to a low, vibrating hum. "I told you—the ring was sold. I have the digital receipts from the jeweler in Zurich. I tracked the wire transfer myself before the world went black."

I let out a sharp, jagged laugh—the kind of cold, mocking sound I’d studied in a dozen of Vivian’s old social media clips. I reached up and pried his hand off my shoulder, tossing his arm away as if it were a minor inconvenience.

"Oh, Lu. Always so paranoid. It’s exhausting," I said, my voice dripping with honeyed condescension. "Did it ever occur to your brilliant, tortured mind that the ring I sold was a high-grade replica? I needed the liquidity for the move, and I wasn’t about to let a perfectly good conflict-free diamond go to waste just because I was heading to the Rue Montaigne. The real stone stayed in the vault. I just didn't tell you because, well... you were a bit busy wrapping your car around a tree and losing your mind."

The silence that followed was so thick I could hear the rhythmic tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the foyer. I held my breath, the copper tang of adrenaline coating my tongue. It was a massive, desperate bluff. I was betting on the fact that the real Vivian Lancaster was exactly the kind of narcissist who would pawn a fake and keep the real one just to spite him.

Lucian’s jaw worked, his face a battleground of suspicion and an ache so deep it looked like physical illness. He wanted to believe me. Even through the scar tissue of the betrayal, he was starving for a reason to let me stay.

Slowly, his posture slumped. He didn't apologize—neither of them seemed to have that word in their vocabulary—but he stepped back, his hand searching for the mahogany edge of his chair.

"Sit down," he muttered, his voice sounding hollow. "The sound of you hovering there is giving me a migraine."

I didn't sit. I saw the opening to push the 'taming' further. "No. You haven’t eaten, and you’re acting like a spoiled brat in a Gothic novel. I’m going to get you something decent, and you’re going to sit there and act like a human being for ten minutes."

I turned on my heel and marched toward the kitchen. My legs felt like jelly. The second I was out of his sensory range, I collapsed against the cold stone wall of the pantry, gasping for air. My palms were slick. I had just lied to a man about his own engagement, and somehow, the sky hadn't fallen.

Ten minutes later, I returned with a tray. I’d talked the chef into something simple—poached eggs, dry sourdough toast, and a cup of black Kona coffee. No peppermint. No lilies. Just the basics.

I entered the dining room with the practiced, effortless grace of a woman who had never worked a day in her life. I set it down in front of him, the fine bone china clinking softly.

"Here. Eat," I commanded.

Lucian didn't move. He sat there, staring into the abyss of his own permanent midnight. Then, without a flicker of warning, his hand shot out. He didn't reach for the silverware. He struck the side of the tray with a violent, backhanded motion.

CRASH.

The porcelain shattered against the hardwood. The eggs slid across the floor like a grisly accident, and the scalding black coffee splashed upward, soaking the hem of my three-thousand-dollar silk dress and searing my ankles.

I gasped, jumping back, the sting of the liquid sharp against my skin.

"I told you I wasn't hungry!" Lucian roared, his face contorted in a mask of pure, ugly defiance. He was baiting me. He wanted the explosion. He wanted the Vivian who would shriek, throw a vase at his head, and storm out—giving him the excuse he needed to sink back into the rot. "Clean it up, Vivian. Since you’re so intent on playing the devoted martyr, get on your knees and clean up the mess you made."

I stood there, staring at the wreckage. My ankles were throbbing, and the dress—the dress that represented months of Noah’s stability—was ruined.

The old Celeste would have cried. The Vivian I was playing would have summoned a maid and made a scene.

But I wasn't either of them. I was a girl who had spent her nights scrubbing the grease traps of a 24-hour diner in Queens just to pay for an inhaler. I was a girl who had seen her brother’s vitals flatline on a monitor.

A mess on a floor didn't scare me.

Without a word, I knelt.

The silk of my skirt soaked up the bitter coffee as I moved. I didn't call for the staff. I didn't hurl an insult. I simply began to gather the jagged shards of the broken plate. My fingers stung as a sharp edge sliced into my thumb, but I didn't make a sound.

Lucian went still. He tilted his head, his ears straining to catch the sound of my breakdown. He was waiting for the "How dare you!" or the sound of the front door slamming.

Instead, all he heard was the rhythmic clink of ceramic and the rustle of wet silk.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice wavering with a sudden, sharp edge of confusion.

I didn't answer. I reached for the linen cloth I’d brought and began to wipe the coffee from the dark wood.

"Vivian? I told you to clean it—I didn't actually think you would," he said, his voice rising in pitch. He stood up, his hands hovering over the table as if trying to locate me in the dark. "Why aren't you screaming back? Tell me I'm a monster! Do something!"

I squeezed the excess coffee into a bowl, the silence in the room becoming a vacuum. I could feel his sightless eyes searching for me, desperate for a reaction that fit his narrative.

I finished the floor. I stood up slowly, clutching the tray of broken glass and damp towels. Only then did I let the mask slip, just enough to show the steel underneath.

"Are you finished?" I asked. My voice wasn't the airy lilt of Vivian. It was flat. Exhausted. It was the voice of Celeste Harper, the girl who had nothing left to lose.

Lucian flinched as if I’d struck him. "Your voice... it’s gone cold. Like ice."

"It’s hard to be 'bubbly' when I’m picking bone china out of my skin, Lucian," I said, leaning in so close I could smell the woodsmoke on his sweater. "You want me to yell? You want me to quit so you can go back to being the tragic, lonely victim? Sorry to disappoint you. I’ve dealt with much worse than a spilled cup of coffee."

"You... you would have never done this before," he whispered, his hand reaching out, almost brushing my cheek before he recoiled in self-loathing. "You would have called me a freak and spent a week in the Hamptons."

"Maybe I realized that the Hamptons are lonely," I lied, though the loneliness part felt like the truest thing I’d said all day. "I’m going to get a fresh tray. And this time, you’re going to eat. Because if you starve to death, I don't get my happy ending, do I?"

I turned to leave, but his voice caught me at the door.

"Vivian?"

"Yes, Lucian?"

"Why is there blood on the floor? I can smell the iron."

I looked down at my thumb. A thick drop of crimson was trailing down the white porcelain. "It’s nothing. Just a scratch."

"Vivian Lancaster faints at the sight of a paper cut," he said, his voice hollow and haunted. "Who are you? Truly? Because you look like her... you smell like her... but you don't feel like her at all."

I felt a cold shiver race down my spine. The shift had happened. By being resilient—by being good—I was becoming more suspicious than if I had been cruel.

"I’m the version of me that decided to grow up," I said, my heart pounding. "You should try it, Lu. It’s liberating."

I walked out of the room, my lungs burning. I had survived the morning, but the 'Beast' wasn't just angry anymore—he was curious. And curiosity was a death sentence for my secret.

As I made my way back to the kitchen, I saw Marcus at the end of the hall. He had watched the entire performance from the shadows. He didn't say a word, but he gave me a sharp, respectful nod. He knew I had won the battle, but the look in his eyes told me the war was only just beginning.

I reached the kitchen and dumped the broken glass. My hand was shaking so violently I had to grip the edge of the industrial sink.

"You're doing great, Celeste," I whispered, my eyes burning. "Just a few more months. For Noah."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my burner phone. I had one new message. It wasn't from the hospital.

“I know you’re in there, little actress. Tell Emelia the clock is ticking. We want our cut of the trust, or Lucian gets a phone call that ruins the performance. Midnight. The gate.”

I dropped the phone. It clattered against the tile, the screen glowing like a threat.

I wasn't just fighting Lucian anymore. Vivian’s past was coming for its share, and they didn't care who they had to kill to get it.