Chapter 2: The Guest Behind the Curtain

"I'm... I'm not in the mood to argue with you, Bastien."

Vivienne's voice shook, raspy and strained. The tremor wasn't an act. Her knees went weak as a wave of intense nausea surged into the back of her throat.

Bastien didn't budge. His palm remained pressed flat against the door, trapping her against the wood. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body through the thin fabric of her dress.

"Turning down money and power isn't like you," Bastien whispered right beside her ear. "Unless you're plotting something far more dangerous behind my back."

Vivienne squeezed her eyes shut. Gathering whatever courage she had left, she let her knees buckle, slumping her weight against the door.

Her breath came in shallow gasps, cold sweat clinging to her temples and the back of her neck. She tilted her head slightly, letting him see her chalk-white face and chapped lips.

"Think whatever you want..." she wheezed, her voice trailing off. "Just let me go to my room. My head feels like it's about to split open."

Bastien studied her expression with calculating eyes. Lifting a gloved hand, he briefly brushed his fingers across her forehead. Her skin was clammy—burning hot yet ice-cold to the touch.

His hold on the door finally relented. Bastien stepped back, giving her just enough space for fresh air to rush back into her lungs.

"Go," he said flatly, his gaze pinned to her as she stumbled past. "Just remember, this estate no longer has room for the useless."

Vivienne didn't look back. She hurried down the marble hallway, took the winding stairs up to her room on the second-floor west wing, and locked the door behind her.

The moment the lock clicked, she sank to the carpeted floor, clutching her wildly hammering chest.

The man was a monster through and through. Vivienne knew damn well that playing sick had only bought her a few hours of borrowed time.

Earlier this afternoon, she had overheard Silas Drake talking near the grand staircase. By tomorrow morning, all manual locks in the Vance manor would be replaced with biometric fingerprint scanners and high-security passcodes. Once that system went live, the main wing would go on full lockdown, and every move she made would fall under Bastien's direct surveillance.

Tonight was her only shot.

Vivienne had to get her hands on her original documents: her passport, birth certificate, and the property deeds left behind by the Sterling family, all locked away inside the safe in her late stepfather's study. Without proper identification, she would never make it across the border when she made her run.

She waited in the pitch black until the antique clock on the wall struck two in the morning.

The Vance mansion had sunk into total silence. Vivienne changed into a silent, long-sleeved black nightgown that didn't rustle when she moved. Slipping a small pocket flashlight into her pocket, she crept out of the room barefoot.

The hallway floor was freezing beneath her soles. Relying on the plot details of the novel she had read, Vivienne navigated the long third-floor corridor that the servants rarely patrolled.

At the end of the hall, the double doors of Raymond Vance's study loomed ahead.

She pushed down on the silver-plated brass handle with agonizing slowness. Luck was on her side—the door unlocked easily, as the room hadn't been cleared out since the funeral earlier that day.

Vivienne slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind her without making a sound.

The scent of stale cigar smoke, worn leather upholstery, and paper dust immediately filled her senses. The study was enormous, lined with bookshelves that stretched all the way to the ornate ceiling.

Without wasting a precious second, Vivienne switched on her flashlight at its lowest setting. She swept the narrow beam toward the western wall, targeting a massive oil painting of an old naval fleet weathering a violent storm.

Tracing her fingers along the painting's teak frame, she found the hidden hinge on the right side and pushed it back gently.

A steel wall safe with a numeric combination dial was tucked away neatly behind it.

Vivienne's fingers trembled as they brushed the cold metal keypad. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, digging through her memories of the novel: the combination to Raymond’s private safe was the date his old friend, Arthur Sterling—Vivienne’s biological father—had died.

One. Four. Zero. Eight. Six. Nine.

Click.

The iron mechanism shifted smoothly into place. The safe door swung open an inch.

Vivienne held her breath. Neatly stacked inside were thick bundles of hundred-dollar bills, an antique revolver, and a leather folder embossed with the Sterling family crest.

Moving quickly, Vivienne pulled the folder out and flipped it open under the dim beam of her flashlight. Her original passport was inside, alongside the deed to a small cottage on the southern coast and an old guardianship decree. She grabbed two stacks of cash as well, shoving them deep into the pockets of her robe.

She was just about to let out a sigh of relief when the metallic click of turning hardware came from the study door.

Click.

The handle was being pushed down from the outside.

The blood in Vivienne's veins turned to ice.

There was no way out. No wardrobe close enough to dive into. The only viable cover nearby was the floor-to-ceiling glass door leading out to the balcony, draped in heavy moss-green velvet curtains.

Vivienne shoved the safe door shut until it locked, swung the painting back into place, and bolted silently behind the curtains. She pressed her back flat against the cold glass, holding her breath until her chest ached.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, then shut with a quiet, decisive thud.

Footsteps echoed into the room. The measured tap of leather soles against the oak floor was slow, deliberate, and entirely unhurried.

Vivienne shut her eyes tight, clutching the Sterling folder against her chest. She prayed it was just the butler doing his nightly rounds.

Yet the crystal chandelier remained dark.

The room stayed steeped in pitch black, illuminated only by the pale sliver of moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains.

From the corner bar, the faint clinking of crystal reached her ears. A glass stopper was uncorked, followed by the amber splash of liquor pouring into a lowball glass.

The sharp aroma of aged whiskey drifted into the air, mingling with the distinct scent of expensive tobacco that Vivienne already recognized all too well.

It wasn't a butler.

It was Bastien.

Her heart pounded so violently against her ribs she was terrified the sound would bounce off the walls. What was he doing in here at two in the morning without turning on the lights?

A quiet sip of whiskey broke the silence. Then stillness reclaimed the room for several agonizing seconds.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The cadence of Bastien's footsteps resumed. Only this time, he wasn't heading toward the desk. He was walking directly, without a shred of hesitation, toward the balcony window.

Straight toward where Vivienne stood petrified.

Vivienne gripped the folder until her knuckles turned white. Her mind raced frantically for an exit, but she was cornered in a dead end.

The footsteps halted right in front of the velvet folds hiding her.

Suddenly, a broad, powerful hand seized the heavy curtain and ripped it aside with a violent tug. The fabric tore slightly at the top rings with a sharp rustle.

Vivienne gasped, her breath catching in her throat.

Bastien stood directly in front of her. He had shed his suit jacket, wearing only a black silk shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone and the taut cords of his chest. In his left hand, he held his half-empty glass of whiskey.

His gray eyes gleamed with lethal sharpness in the pale moonlight.

Before Vivienne could even attempt to dart sideways, Bastien’s free hand shot forward. His fingers clamped around her wrist and yanked her forward.

"Ah!" A stifled cry slipped past her lips as her back slammed against the rigid wooden frame of the window.

Bastien crowded in, eliminating every remaining inch between them. His tall, imposing frame caged her in completely—an inescapable physical trap. The heat radiating off his body and the heavy scent of whiskey flooded her senses all at once.

Bastien’s gaze drifted downward, taking in the corner of the Sterling crest on the leather folder and the stacks of cash clutched in her pale, trembling fingers.

His calloused index finger rose, tracing the rigid line of her jawline before resting lightly against the pulse point on the side of her neck. Her pulse fluttered beneath his touch like the wings of a panicked bird.

The corner of Bastien’s mouth curved into a faint, humorless smirk that sent a chill cascading down her spine.

"Breaking into my study in the middle of the night... with your passport and stacks of cash." Bastien pressed in until not a breath of space remained, pinning her heaving chest directly against his black silk shirt.

"Where exactly are you running to, Vivienne? From your mother... or from me?"