Chapter 7: The Enemy of My Enemy

James opened the door.

Vivienne stood in the corridor, still in the same sharp suit she'd worn that morning, but the polish was gone. Her hair was loose, her eyes were red-rimmed, and her hands were shaking. She wasn't the woman who had threatened Mathilde in the salon. She was something else entirely—something broken.

"Vivienne," James said, his voice low. "It's late. What do you want?"

"I need to talk to her." Vivienne's voice cracked. "I need to talk to Mathilde. Alone. Please."

James didn't move. "Give me one reason I shouldn't wake Caspian and have you thrown off the property."

"Because I'm not the one you should be afraid of." Vivienne's eyes darted down the corridor, then back to James. "I know who's been feeding your father information. I know who told him about the room. I know who's been watching all of you for months." She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And if you don't let me in, they're going to kill her."

The words landed like a blow. James's hand tightened on the doorframe.

"Who?" he demanded. "Who's going to kill her?"

"Let me in," Vivienne said. "And I'll tell you everything."

James looked back at Mathilde, who was still hidden behind the curtains. She nodded, once.

He stepped aside.

Vivienne entered the room, her eyes scanning every corner. When she saw Mathilde emerge from behind the curtains, something in her expression shifted—relief, maybe, or something closer to desperation.

"You're okay," Vivienne breathed. "Good. That's good."

"What do you want?" Mathilde asked, keeping her voice steady.

"I want to help you." Vivienne sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands still trembling. "I know you have no reason to trust me. I know I threatened you. I know I said terrible things. But I didn't know—" She stopped, her voice catching. "I didn't know what he was capable of."

"Who?" James asked. "Who are you talking about?"

Vivienne looked up at him, and for the first time since Mathilde had met her, she looked genuinely afraid.

"Your father," she said. "But not just him. It's the man who works for him. The one who's been in this house for years. The one nobody notices." She paused. "His name is Marchetti. He's the estate manager. And he's been feeding your father information about all of you for a decade."

James went very still. "Marchetti? He's been with us since I was a child."

"That's the point." Vivienne's voice was bitter. "He's invisible. He's trusted. He's the one who installed the microphones in the east wing. He's the one who told your father about the room. And he's the one who's been following Mathilde since the day she arrived."

Mathilde's blood ran cold. She thought about the figurine. The note. The journal. Someone had been watching her from the very beginning.

"Why?" she asked. "Why would he do that?"

"Because your father pays him," Vivienne said. "Because your father has been using him to keep tabs on all of you for years. Because your father doesn't trust anyone—not even his own sons." She looked at James. "And because Marchetti is the one who stands to inherit everything if the family falls apart."

"What do you mean?" James asked.

"I mean your father has been planning to disinherit all three of you," Vivienne said. "For years. He thinks you're weak. He thinks you're too close to each other. He thinks the only way to protect the company is to cut you out entirely. And Marchetti has been helping him do it."

The room was silent.

"That's insane," James said. "My father would never—"

"Your father would do anything," Vivienne interrupted. "You know that. You've always known that. The only reason he hasn't done it yet is because he needed you to keep the company running. But now—" She looked at Mathilde. "—now he has a reason. Now he has leverage. Now he can use her to destroy all three of you, and he doesn't have to lift a finger."

Mathilde's mind was racing. "The contract. The morality clause. He planned this from the beginning."

"Yes," Vivienne said. "He planned everything. The dinner. The introduction. The contract. He knew the three of you would be drawn to her. He knew you'd break the rule. He was counting on it. It gave him the excuse he needed."

James's expression had gone cold. "And you? What's your part in all this?"

Vivienne looked down at her hands. "I was supposed to marry Caspian. I was supposed to keep him in line. I was supposed to be the perfect wife who never asked questions and never caused problems." She laughed, a hollow sound. "But I made the mistake of falling in love with him. And I made the mistake of thinking he might love me back."

"He does," Mathilde said quietly. "In his own way."

"No," Vivienne said. "He loves the idea of me. He loves what I represent. But he doesn't love me. He never has." She looked up at Mathilde. "He loves you. All three of them do. And that's why your father is going to destroy you."

A sound from the corridor made all three of them freeze.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming toward the room.

Vivienne's face went white. "He's here. Marchetti. He knows I came to you."

"How?" James demanded.

"I don't know. He knows everything." Vivienne stood, her eyes darting around the room. "You have to hide. Both of you. Now."

"Where?" Mathilde asked.

"The servant's stairs. There's a passage behind the wardrobe. It leads to the east wing." Vivienne pushed the wardrobe aside, revealing a small, dark doorway. "Go. I'll hold him off."

"You can't—" James started.

"I can." Vivienne's voice was steady now, resolved. "He won't hurt me. He needs me. I'm still the key to the merger." She looked at Mathilde. "But he will hurt you. Both of you. Go. Now. Don't look back."

James grabbed Mathilde's hand and pulled her toward the passage.

They slipped into the darkness just as the door to the room opened.

Mathilde heard Marchetti's voice, low and cold. "Vivienne. What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Vivienne said, her voice steady. "It's late. Why are you wandering the corridors?"

"I was checking on the guest." A pause. "She's not in her room."

"She's with Caspian," Vivienne said smoothly. "I saw her go to his study an hour ago. You know how these things are."

Another pause. Then Marchetti laughed. "You're lying. But that's okay. I'll find her. I always find them."

James pulled Mathilde deeper into the passage.

The walls were close, the air thick with dust. Mathilde's heart was hammering so hard she was sure it could be heard through the walls. James's hand was warm around hers, steady and sure.

"Where does this lead?" she whispered.

"The east wing. The room with the photographs." He paused. "We can't stay there. It's not safe."

"Then where?"

"There's a car in the garage. We can take it. Get you out of here."

"And leave my mother?"

"Mathilde—"

"I'm not leaving her." She stopped, pulling her hand free. "I'm not leaving any of you. We started this together. We finish it together."

James looked at her in the darkness, and even in the dim light, she could see something in his eyes—fear, yes, but also something else. Something that looked almost like pride.

"You're stubborn," he said.

"I've been told."

"It's going to get you killed."

"Then it's going to get me killed." She met his eyes. "But I'm not running. Not anymore."

A sound from behind them made them both freeze.

Footsteps. In the passage. Coming toward them.

James's hand tightened on hers. "Run."

They ran.

The passage twisted and turned, narrow and dark, the walls closing in around them. Mathilde could hear Marchetti behind them, his footsteps steady, unhurried, like a man who knew he had all the time in the world.

"He's going to catch us," she gasped.

"No, he's not." James pulled her around a corner, through a door, into a room she didn't recognize. A study, maybe, or a library. Bookshelves lined the walls. A fire burned low in the grate.

"Where are we?"

"My father's study." James crossed the room, his eyes scanning the shelves. "There's a safe behind this bookshelf. It has a phone. A direct line to the police."

"You think the police will help?"

"I think they'll be interested in a man who's been spying on a family for a decade." He found the book he was looking for—a worn leather volume—and pulled it. The bookshelf swung open, revealing a small safe.

The door to the study burst open.

Marchetti stood in the doorway, a gun in his hand.

"Step away from the safe, James," he said quietly. "You're not going to call anyone."

James didn't move. "You're not going to shoot me, Marchetti. You need me. I'm the only one who can keep the company running."

"I don't need you," Marchetti said. "I never did. Your father was right about you. You're weak. All three of you. Too busy fighting over a girl to see what's right in front of you."

He raised the gun.

And then, from the doorway, came a voice.

"Put it down."

Caspian stood in the doorway, a shotgun in his hands.

Marchetti turned, his eyes widening. "Caspian—"

"I said put it down." Caspian's voice was cold, steady, the voice of a man who had been trained his whole life to handle a crisis. "You're not going to shoot anyone. You're not going to hurt anyone. You're going to put the gun down, and you're going to tell us everything."

Marchetti laughed. "You think you can threaten me? You're just like your father. You think you can control everything. But you can't. You never could."

"I'm nothing like my father," Caspian said. "And I'm not threatening you. I'm giving you a choice. Put the gun down, or I'll put you down. You have three seconds."

The room was silent.

Mathilde held her breath. James stood frozen beside her. Marchetti's hand trembled on the gun.

"One," Caspian said.

Marchetti's eyes darted between them.

"Two."

And then, slowly, Marchetti lowered the gun.

Caspian didn't lower the shotgun.

"Good choice," he said. "Now. Start talking."