Vivienne slammed the door behind her so hard the framed photographs rattled. The polished quiet of the Carter mansion swallowed the sound, but it did nothing to calm the storm in her chest.

“She thinks she can waltz in and steal my project,” Vivienne muttered, kicking off her stilettos. “Aria… what a joke.”

She yanked open a drawer of her father’s massive oak desk, retrieving the thick proposal folder. Pages fluttered as she flipped through them, eyes scanning budgets and timelines. Every line represented months of research and whispered meetings with investors. Investors who expected her name, not Aria’s, on the marquee.

“She hasn’t worked a single day on this,”...