تسجيل الدخولPOV: Vivienne Hart
"You cannot just hand me legal documents in front of a hundred reporters and expect me to let you walk away without a single explanation, Vivienne," Roman yelled, slamming the heavy wooden front door of their penthouse shut behind him as he followed her into the dimly lit living room, his tuxedo jacket already unbuttoned and his tie pulled loose. "I gave you seven years of explanations, Roman, but you never listened to a single one because you were always too busy building your kingdom, so please just sign the paperwork on the kitchen island and leave my house immediately," Vivienne replied, her voice finally losing its icy composure as she turned to face him, the built-up exhaustion and physical pain from the car accident finally catching up to her. "Your house? This is our home, Vivienne, and I am not signing anything until you calm down and tell me why you are acting completely hysterical over a media announcement that I didn't even approve," Roman demanded, stepping closer to her with his hands raised in frustration, his dark eyes flashing with a familiar stubbornness that used to make her back down. "I am not hysterical, Roman, but I am completely finished begging you for crumbs of affection while you run to Celeste every single time she calls, because I spent twelve hours alone in a trauma unit after a truck smashed into my vehicle while you were holding her hand at Saint Jude’s," Vivienne snapped, her voice cracking as seven years of silent compliance broke apart right in front of him. "I told you that Celeste’s condition was critical, and whatever she said on that stage tonight about being pregnant has absolutely nothing to do with me, because we haven't been intimate, and I am not the father of her child," Roman insisted, his tone dead serious as he tried to grab her shoulders to make her look at him, but she pushed his hands away with surprising force. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that when your own mother called me from the hospital to tell me to step aside gracefully so Celeste could provide the Ashford Group with an heir?" Vivienne asked, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping her lips as she watched his expression falter for a split second. "My mother said that to you? I didn't know she called you, Vivienne, but that still doesn't change the fact that you are overreacting to external pressure, because you always do this when things get stressful, and then you calm down after a few days and everything goes back to normal," Roman said, crossing his arms over his chest as if he had already won the argument, his absolute confidence in her predictability radiating off him. "Nothing is ever going back to normal, Roman, because you truly believe that I have nowhere else to go and no identity outside of being your quiet, supportive wife who manages your household while you ignore her existence," Vivienne said, walking over to the marble island where Arthur had left the document folder before he departed. "Because it’s the truth, Vivienne, and you know as well as I do that a divorce will leave you with nothing but a standard settlement, which won't even cover your current lifestyle once you lose the Ashford name," Roman stated coldly, his arrogance blinding him to the actual reality of the woman standing across from him. "You really think I survived on your charity all these years, Roman, but the truth is that I am the primary beneficiary of the Vanguard Trust, which means I currently own exactly eighteen percent of the Ashford Group through hidden offshore holdings that my family established before we even married," Vivienne revealed, her voice dropping to a dangerous, steady whisper that caused Roman’s entire body to freeze instantly. "The Vanguard Trust? That is an international conglomerate that has been aggressively buying up our debt for the last three fiscal quarters, so there is absolutely no way a linguistics graduate from a middle-class background could control those assets," Roman stammered, his face turning pale as he tried to process the information, his mind desperately rewriting everything he thought he knew about his wife. "My family dynasty has more wealth than your entire corporate empire will ever see, Roman, and I buried my name because I wanted you to love me for who I was, not what I owned, but since you preferred Celeste's lies over my truth, I am going to use every single one of those shares to dismantle your board of directors piece by piece," Vivienne said, pulling a sleek black pen from her purse without a single hint of hesitation left in her posture. "Vivienne, wait, let's just sit down and talk about this properly because if the board finds out you control that much equity, the stock value will crater by morning," Roman pleaded, his previous arrogance completely evaporating as he lunged forward to stop her, but it was already too late. With a swift, fluid motion, Vivienne pressed the pen to the parchment and scribbled her signature across the dotted line, before she slid the heavy manila folder across the smooth marble surface until it struck Roman directly in the chest. "The papers are officially signed on my end, Roman, so you can either sign them now or let my attorneys handle the hostile takeover of your company on Monday morning," Vivienne said, turning her back on him completely as she walked toward the private elevator, leaving her keys on the counter and stepping inside the steel doors without looking back a single time.POV: Roman Ashford "Tell me what he meant," Roman said. "Right now. I don't care who is listening." He had not moved since Boyd spoke. He stood in the middle of the boardroom with his hands at his sides and the color gone from his face, a big man who suddenly looked like he was balancing on the edge of a roof. Around him the donors had fallen back, murmuring. Vivienne was at his elbow. She could feel him shaking through his sleeve. "Roman," she said softly. "Not here." "He said my father." "I heard him." "My father died in a car accident when I was eleven. Edmund Ashford. I have his watch. I have his handwriting on the back of a hundred photographs." His voice cracked. "What is that man talking about?" Boyd sat down again and arranged his cuffs. He looked, if anything, relieved, like a man who has finally put his last card on the table. "I think it would be kinder to see for yourself. Your mother kept the proof in a safe. Behind the bed, in the room with the blue curtains. The
POV: Vivienne Ashford "I'd like to say something before we begin," Katya said. "If the board will permit it." Her voice was clear and small in the vast conference room. It was noon. Rain streaked the tall windows, and the long table was crowded with donors, foundation directors, and three lawyers who had clearly come to take notes. Harlan Boyd sat at the head of it in a dove-gray suit, composed and faintly bored. Elspeth Crane sat on his right with her reading glasses pushed into her silver hair. Vivienne stood behind Katya with one hand on her shoulder. Both of them had been told to wait outside. Neither had. "This session is closed to non-members," Boyd said mildly. "I am a donor," Katya said. "Seven years ago my family wired eleven million dollars to this fund through a Zurich foundation. I believe that makes me a member for the purposes of this hearing." A small stir. Boyd's pen paused. "You're Ms. Volkonsky?" "I'm Katya Lindgren now. But yes." "I wasn't aware you were a
POV: Vivienne Ashford "Open the door, Dana," Vivienne said. "Nobody here is going to hurt you." She stood in a narrow hallway in a small brick house in Hartford, with one hand flat against a white bathroom door. The wallpaper was pale yellow, faded at the seams. Family photographs lined the wall behind her. A man with kind eyes and a printer's apron. A little girl in a school uniform, gap-toothed, holding a trophy twice the size of her head. Vivienne had been looking at that girl for ten minutes, trying to see her in the woman behind the door. From inside came the small sound of someone breathing too hard. "I don't believe you," Dana said. Her voice was muffled and raw. "I know. That's fair." "You'll call the police." "I won't. I didn't bring any." Vivienne glanced down the hall to where Roman stood with Marguerite at the kitchen table, his big hands wrapped around a mug he wasn't drinking. Priya and Thomas waited in the van outside with a clear view of the gray car at the curb
POV: Vivienne Ashford "Forty seconds," Thomas said. "Somebody count." "I am counting!" Maya had both hands pressed over her mouth. She stood at the rail beside Grace, her sweater soaked to the elbows, her eyes locked on the place where the water had closed over Oliver's head. Behind them the pier was chaos, officers shouting, flashlights sweeping the boards, Gerald struggling in an agent's grip and screaming his son's name. Roman reached the rail at a dead run. Vivienne was right behind him. They had left the van abandoned in the lot with its doors flung wide. He looked down at the black water and saw only ripples. "How long?" "Forty-five seconds," Thomas said. "Where is he?" "Under." Grace's voice was a thread. "He's under. He said ninety seconds." "Then we get a rope," Roman said. "We get a boat hook, a ladder, anything..." "There's a life ring by the stairs," Thomas shouted, and was gone. Vivienne's hand closed over her daughter's. Grace didn't seem to feel it. She was gr
POV: Grace "Don't move," Dana said. "Any of you. I would hate for this to get untidy." The light at the end of the pier buzzed and flickered. Beneath their feet the black water slapped the pilings, slow and heavy, and a cold wind carried the smell of salt and diesel across the boards. Grace stepped half in front of her husband before she knew she was doing it. "You followed us," Grace said. "I followed your van. It's a very loud van." "It's a tour van," Oliver said faintly. "Is that what it is." Dana almost smiled. "It has a bumper sticker that says My Other Car Is a Cello. I watched it park three streets back and thought, those people have no idea how to hide." "We weren't hiding." "No. You were hoping." She tipped her head. "I know the feeling." Dana came forward at an easy walk. Her long coat hung open. In her right hand, held up where they could all see it, was a small silver cylinder no longer than a finger. "That's a flash drive," Oliver said. "Very good." "What's on
POV: Grace "She said gardenias," Priya whispered. "Twice. Then nothing." The van smelled of cold coffee and cello rosin. Thomas sat at the wheel with both hands locked on it. Roman crouched behind him, one knee on the floor, staring at a laptop screen where the audio line had gone to a flat gray hiss. "How long has it been dead?" Roman asked. "Forty seconds." "She gave the signal." "She did." "Then we go." "Roman, wait." Priya caught his sleeve. "If he has a jammer, we can't hear inside, and he can't hear us. If you storm the door, you're breaking into a retired federal judge's home with no warrant and nothing but a word about flowers." "She's my wife." "I know. And she's smart enough to know we'd come." Priya's voice shook, but she held his eyes. "Give me two minutes. I have an idea." "Two minutes is too long." "One, then." Roman looked at her. Then at Thomas. Thomas nodded once. "One," Roman said. Priya spun the laptop around and opened a program. "Jammers work on spe







