Chapter 18

Vivienne’s POV

I stared at Alexander after the words left my mouth.

I did not look away.

I watched him carefully, waiting.

The anger did not explode immediately. It built slowly, like something dark rising from beneath the surface. His eyes deepened first, the calm inside them turning heavy and dangerous. Then his lips curved slightly, not in amusement but in something colder, something sharper.

He looked at me as if I had said something foolish.

“ I have no right to control you.”

He repeated my words quietly, as though testing them, as though they were absurd.

Then his expression hardened.

“You are still my wife.”

His voice dropped, steady and cold.

“And you are still my sister.”

The words landed like a weight pressing down on me.

He continued, his tone carrying a warning that made my chest tighten. He told me to think carefully about why that man wanted me to go abroad. He said that if I left, I would be alone. That anything could happen to me there.

Anything.

The meaning slipped past me at first. My thoughts were already tangled, stretched too thin from everything that had happened. I felt cornered, suffocated, as if every direction I turned led back to him.

My chest tightened until breathing felt difficult.

Frustration burst out of me without warning. I kicked the blanket away, careless, reckless.

Pain struck instantly.

My injured ankle dragged hard against the edge of the mattress, twisting in a way it should not have. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my leg and tore a broken sound from my throat.

My vision blurred. Tears rushed to my eyes. My body trembled uncontrollably.

Alexander’s anger vanished at once.

He moved forward without hesitation, pulling the blanket away and lifting my ankle carefully in both hands. His voice changed immediately. Urgent. Focused.

“What did you do?”

I could not answer. I could only nod through the pain.

He reached for the medicine box, his movements quick but controlled. He unwrapped the gauze, exposing the swollen skin. The moment the air touched it, the throbbing intensified and I flinched sharply.

He cleaned it with disinfectant. It stung. I gripped the sheets tightly, forcing myself not to cry out again.

Then his fingers pressed lightly around the joint, testing, adjusting. Slowly, he began to massage the area.

His hands were warm. Steady. Certain.

The sharp pain dulled beneath his touch. The tension eased little by little until only a heavy ache remained.

He applied a cooling ointment next. The cold spread across my skin, soothing, numbing. Then he wrapped the bandage again, firm and secure.

By the time he finished, my breathing had steadied.

But the air between us had not.

He set the ointment aside and straightened. His expression had already changed back.

Cold. Controlled.

“I will not allow you to resign.”

His voice was firm, leaving no space for argument.

“Do not mention it again.”

It was not a suggestion. It was an order.

I lowered my gaze, irritation and helplessness twisting together inside me. I did not respond. I had no strength left to argue.

He sat on the edge of the bed, silent for a moment. Then his voice came again, colder this time.

“We are not divorced yet.”

I looked up.

“You should not bring other men into this house.”

My chest tightened.

“Can I not even invite friends?” My voice came out sharper than I intended.

He did not answer immediately. His gaze shifted briefly to the crutch near my feet before returning to me.

“That man,” he said quietly, “is he really just a friend?”

Anger flared again.

I turned my face away, refusing to look at him. Talking to him felt pointless. Exhausting.

“I do not want to argue anymore,” I said softly.

Evening passed in silence.

Warm water usually calmed me, but that night it did little to settle my thoughts. When I returned to the bedroom, my eyes caught something on the table.

A document.

At first, I thought it was work. Or something Isabella had brought. But as I stepped closer, curiosity pulled me in.

It was not a company file.

It was a medical record.

Saint James Hospital.

My fingers paused on the edge of the paper as I read the name.

Isabella Blackwood.

For a moment, my mind went blank.

Isabella was sick.

When. Why. How.

Questions rose one after another, but something inside me resisted opening the file. A quiet unease settled in my chest, heavy and unexplainable.

I pulled my hand back.

I did not want to know.

I turned and walked into the bathroom.

When I came out, the document was gone.

Alexander had taken it.

The absence of it left behind a strange discomfort that lingered long after.

The next morning, I made my way downstairs slowly, leaning on my crutch.

Alexander was already at the table.

I looked at him and asked directly if we were going to finalize the divorce today.

His gaze dropped briefly to my ankle before he answered.

“I am leaving for a business trip.”

His tone was calm.

“We will do it when I return.”

My brows tightened.

“Where are you going?”

He named the project. The one transferred from my department. Then he added, almost casually, that I could come if I wanted.

I refused immediately.

He nodded once.

“Then wait for me.”

There was no room for negotiation in his voice.

The conversation sounded ordinary. Like nothing had changed.

But I knew better.

Everything had already ended.

The days that followed were quiet and slow.

My ankle improved gradually, but the stillness of the house felt suffocating. To pass time, I scrolled through news on my phone.

That was when I saw it.

A headline.

Isabella’s photos spark controversy.

V and R employees say she is the boss’s wife.

My chest tightened as I opened it.

The photos were not paparazzi shots. They were internal campaign images. Taken from within the company.

The article criticized everything. Her makeup. Her styling. Her image.

Comments flooded in.

Lena’s fans mocked her openly. They attacked her skills, her looks, her position. They dragged the company into it, turning it into a public spectacle.

My fingers tightened around my phone.

This was a crisis.

I called my assistant immediately and told her to contact CCPR and suppress the situation.

When she called back, her voice was hesitant.

“They have already reported to Olivia.”

My heart sank.

That used to be my responsibility.

Now it was not.

A bitter smile formed on my lips.

I had already been replaced.

Maggie entered shortly after with a package in her hands.

“For you,” she said, confused.

I frowned. I had not ordered anything.

Still, I told her to open it.

The cardboard flaps parted slowly.

I looked inside.

And everything in my body went cold.

The color drained from my face instantly.

My hand jerked back as if burned.

A violent wave of nausea surged through me. I bent forward, gripping the edge of the bed as my stomach twisted painfully.

Fear spread through me, fast and suffocating.

Whatever was inside that box had shattered the fragile calm I had been holding onto.

And I knew, without a doubt, that this was only the beginning.