2

Vivian’s POV

I was still trying to collect myself, my hands trembling as I pulled my dress over my head. My whole body felt heavy and sensitive and totally broken in the best way. A deep, throbbing heat between my thighs was a very vivid reminder of exactly what Ethan Blackwell had done to me in the dark. I took a shaky breath, trying to calm my racing heart, when the door was rattled suddenly by a sharp, aggressive knock.

I stood frozen, clutching the edge of my skirt.

Then a voice I knew well boomed out in the hallway. “What the hell are you doing here!” Derek growled on the other side of my door.

A cold ran through my blood. Derek. Former boyfriend. The morning of his own fucking wedding.

Before Derek could start shouting again, another voice answered him. It was a quiet, perfectly unhurried voice. "Is this door going to open," Ethan asked smoothly, his deep voice sending a fresh, wet shiver straight down my spine, "or does it need my help?" The dark commanding tone that never needed to be raised to make people listen.

Derek was completely silent. The silence was so thick I could almost feel it on the wood. There were only two people in the whole Blackwell family Derek was truly, truly scared of. And one of them was just outside my door.

"Derek," a voice called from down the hall. An older man's voice. What are you doing? Your bride is waiting for you. Come here, right now.

I heard the thump-thump of heavy footsteps scuffling against the carpet as two family elders basically dragged Derek away, pulling him back toward his own wedding. I was rooted to the spot, my back against the wall. I waited till the footsteps died away at last.

I took a deep breath, straightened my clothes and slowly turned the doorknob.

I opened the door and Ethan was still there . He was perfectly put together in his dark, expensive suit, but his dark eyes were wild. His eyes slowly trailed down my body, taking in my messy hair, my flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of my breasts with my quickened breaths. The look he shot me was quick, completely unreadable, but hot enough to make my knees feel weak. "You look just like a woman just thoroughly ruined," Ethan murmured, his voice a low, dark vibration. He moved closer, crowding my space, his heavy eyes dropping to my lips. I could push you back in here right now and finish what we started in the shower.

I swallowed hard, and my core tightened at the raw promise in his tone. "I... I have to go.

His eyes flicked back up to mine, a little cooler. “I’ll send someone to take you home.

"No," I said hurriedly, walking round his big figure. I couldn't have grown used to a man like that. “I can do good enough myself.

I didn't look back as I walked off.

Ten minutes later I was in the back of a yellow taxi, watching the city blur past the window. Then my phone vibrated in my bag. I pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. The hospital. "Hello?" I said, clutching my chest.

"Miss Clarke," said the nurse in the billing department, with the voice of someone in a strictly professional capacity. “I'm calling about your mother, Helen Clarke. Her account is running dangerously low. “If we are to keep her treatments going, we need payment right now.”

I pressed my lips together until they hurt. “How much time do you have?”

"Miss Clarke by the end of the day.

I see." My voice was steady but my throat clawed with panic. I'll come right away to arrange it.

I put the phone down and closed my eyes. I leaned forward and rapped on the plastic partition. “Driver. Things have changed. "I've got to go somewhere else.

I gave him the one place I’d been avoiding, these past months. My father’s house.

The journey over there was pure torture. I looked down at my hands. I thought about my mother. She was fine. Then she wasn’t. It happened on a perfectly normal Tuesday. She woke up in a bright hospital room, diagnosed with late stage cancer, and it just crushed our whole world.

But that was not the worst of it. My father, Richard, came home two days into her aggressive chemotherapy. And he didn’t come alone. He had his mistress, Sandra, and one of his half-sisters, Megan, who was almost my age. He'd been living a double life his whole life.

When I yelled at him, when I threw a glass vase and told him to show my dying mother some basic human respect, he didn’t apologize. He just pointed the door. By nightfall I was out of my childhood home.

The taxi turned in at the big iron gates of the estate. I paid the driver and got out into the morning sun. I moved to the keypad and punched in my code.

Error.

The gate code was different. I laughed, a bitter ugly laugh. I called out, pushed the buzzer, heard it ring and ring and finally the maid let me in.

I went straight into the house, straight into Richard’s study. I didn’t knock before swinging the heavy oak doors open.

The air was heavy with expensive cigars and leather and tightly kept secrets. Richard looked up from his massive desk, and immediately his brow knit into a frown. He looked right through me as if my real body was an annoying scheduling conflict he didn't have time for.

"What are you doing here, Vivian?" he asked, cold.

"The hospital called me," I said, walking up to the desk. Mom’s story is brief. “Pay today, or they cut off her treatments.”

Richard sighed heavily and let his silver pen drop to his papers. “Why do you need money again? You were here last month asking for money.”

"Cancer doesn't just stop, Richard --" I snapped my fists curling into tight fists at my sides.That was the treatment last month. She needs another round.

"How much are you asking this time?" he demanded, leaning back in his expensive leather chair.

“A million dollars.”

He stopped dead. "One million?"

“Yes,” I said firmly, not caring that my heart pounded against my ribcage. Mom was given less than six months to live by the doctor. One million dollars for all her medical bills, her private room, her round-the-clock care, cleanly... until the end. You will never have to hear from me again.

Richard's face became dark with displeasure. He slowly shook his head. I'm not going to write you a check for a million dollars all at once. I'll give you five hundred thousand. "Come back and ask if you want more later. "

I looked at the man who read me bedtime stories. I thought about the huge lavish birthday party he threw for Megan last weekend. I had seen the pictures on line. He rented a whole private club, hired celebrity singers and got her a brand new sports car. That sort of wild recklessness never required negotiations. "You spent that much at Megan's birthday party last week." I said. It never took a second trip to a house where the code to the gate had changed. I didn't shout. I didn't shout. I just said it straight, let the hard truth hang in the silent room.

Richard ground his teeth. Not a word in his defense from his mouth. He pulled his laptop closer, his fingers pounding the keys in angry, staccato taps. "The transfer's complete," he said, not looking up from his screen. "Half a million. Now you go. I've a busy morning.

I dug into my pocket and pulled out my phone, opening up my banking app. The money was there. It wasn't enough, but it would give my mother some more months of peace.

I turned and headed for the great oak doors. I reached for the brass handle, ready to yank it open and leave this toxic house for good.

But I was almost at the door when I stopped. I tightened my grip on the cool metal handle. I glanced back over my shoulder at the man who was sitting comfortably at his desk.

"But if you don't really care about Mom that much, why not just get a divorce?"