The green eyed monster

The valet stand at L’Ermitage was accustomed to high-end machinery. Usually, a line of sleek silver Mercedes and the occasional matte-black Bentley formed a muted parade of wealth. But as the clock struck one, a sound tore through the refined atmosphere of the boulevard—a mechanical, predatory shriek that bounced off the glass storefronts like a physical blow.

Vivienne saw the crowd on the terrace before they saw her. She shifted the Lamborghini into a lower gear, the needle on the tachometer jumping as she gave the engine a deliberate, aggressive rev. The V12 howled, a guttural, earth-shaking roar that silenced the clinking of champagne flutes and the polite murmur of gossip.

Every head turned. It was an instinctive reaction, the way prey turns toward a predator.

On the terrace, Chloe Montgomery stood up so abruptly her chair scraped harshly against the stone. Her face was a mask of pale disbelief, her eyes narrowed as she watched the orange blur approach. She was likely praying to a god she didn't believe in that the driver was anyone other than the woman she was waiting for.

Vivienne pulled the car to a halt directly in front of the entrance, the engine idling with a low, menacing thrum. She didn't rush. She waited for the beat of silence that follows a great performance. Then, she hit the button.

The scissor door swung upward, a silver wing cutting into the blue sky.

First, a gold-strapped stiletto touched the asphalt. Then, Vivienne emerged. She moved with the fluid, effortless grace of a woman who had been born into a world where everything belonged to her. The cream-colored silk of her trousers caught the light, and her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in a perfect, shimmering wave. She stood tall, adjusted her designer sunglasses, and threw a casual, knowing smile toward the terrace.

The aura she carried was suffocating—a mixture of untouchable power and breathtaking beauty. It wasn't just that she was a Blackwood; it was that she wore the name like armor.

A smattering of applause broke out from the onlookers. They weren't shocked—in this city, a Blackwood making an entrance was as expected as the sunrise—but they were appreciative. They were fans of the spectacle.

Vivienne handed the keys to the trembling valet. "Be careful with her," she said, her voice smooth and melodic. "She has a temper."

She walked up the stairs toward the terrace, her heels clicking a rhythmic, confident beat. Chloe was still standing by their table, her mouth slightly agape, her knuckles white where she gripped her clutch bag. She didn't look like a best friend; she looked like someone who had just watched their rival win the lottery while they held a losing ticket.

"Vivienne," Chloe breathed as Vivienne reached the table. She didn't say Happy Birthday. She didn't say You look beautiful. She didn't even say Hello.

"How?" Chloe asked, the word sounding strangled. "How is this possible? The waitlist for the Revuelto is three years long. Even the Governor couldn't get one for his daughter’s wedding."

Vivienne slid into the plush chair opposite her, elegantly tucking her silk-clad legs to the side. "Good morning to you too, Chloe. I'm doing well, thank you for asking."

"I'm serious, Vivi," Chloe sat down, her eyes still darting toward the street where the valet was gingerly moving the car. "Arthur got you that? Just like that? Do you have any idea what that car cost? It’s not just the price; it’s the influence. People kill for an allocation like that."

"My father doesn't wait in lines, Chloe. You know that," Vivienne said, picking up the menu without looking at it. She felt the heat of Chloe’s gaze—a mixture of fascination and a deep, burning resentment that no amount of friendship could fully mask.

"Is it a lease? Or a corporate gift?" Chloe pressed, her voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "Maybe he’s using it as a tax write-off? I heard Sterling Global is doing that with their fleet—"

Vivienne set the menu down slowly. The smile remained on her face, but it didn't reach her eyes. The air between them sharpened.

"Chloe," Vivienne said, her voice quiet but laced with steel. "It is my twenty-third birthday. My father bought me a car because he loves me, and because he can. Can we, just for two hours, stop the interrogation? Can we put away the invisible scoreboard and the competition? I didn't come here to justify my life to you. I came here to have lunch with my friend."

Chloe flinched slightly, the directness of the blow catching her off guard. She let out a forced, airy laugh and waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, don't be so dramatic, Vivi! I’m just impressed. You know how I am about cars. I’m happy for you, obviously."

The lie hung between them like a thick fog. Vivienne knew Chloe wasn't happy; she was calculating. She was already thinking about what she could demand from her own father to level the playing field.

"Anyway," Chloe continued, desperate to shift the power dynamic. "Speaking of things that are 'breathtaking,' have you seen the guest list for the Mayor’s charity gala next week? Julian is going to be there. In a tuxedo."

Vivienne felt the tension in her shoulders ease slightly, grateful for the change in topic. Julian was the Mayor’s son—a golden boy with a Harvard degree and a smile that had been plastered on every socialite’s vision board for the last year. He was the "high-ranking corporate" type her father was always subtly nudging her toward.

"Julian," Vivienne mused, taking a sip of the sparkling water the waiter had just poured. "He is handsome, I’ll give you that. But he’s a bit... polished, don't you think? Like he was grown in a lab for political optics."

"He’s perfect!" Chloe squealed, her eyes lighting up with the only thing that rivaled her love for money: status. "He’s the only man in this city who actually matches your pedigree, Vivi. My father says he’s going to be Governor one day. Imagine. You could be the First Lady of the state. It’s the only move left for a Blackwood, really. You have the money; you just need the crown."

Vivienne looked out over the terrace railing. The orange Lamborghini was gone, tucked away in the VIP section of the garage. Chloe’s words should have been flattering, but they felt like another cage. A more prestigious cage, but a cage nonetheless.

"Julian is a nice guy, Chloe. But I don’t want to be a 'move' on someone's chessboard," Vivienne said softly.

"Please. We’re all moves," Chloe countered, finally regaining her composure as the appetizers arrived. "Look at us. We’re the elite. We don't just 'date,' we merge. And Julian is the best merger you’ll ever find. He’s safe, he’s rich, and his name is clean."

The word triggered a memory in Vivienne’s mind. She suddenly saw the two men on the motorcycles again. The black leather. The aggressive rev of their engines. The way they had looked at her house—not with admiration, but with a cold, calculated hunger. They weren't "clean." They were the opposite of everything Julian represented.

"Vivi? You went a million miles away," Chloe said, waving a fork in front of her face. "Are you even listening? I was saying that Julian’s mother already asked my mom if you were seeing anyone."

"I'm listening," Vivienne lied, forcing a smile back onto her face. "I'm just... hungry. And I want to enjoy this lobster before you start planning my wedding to a man I’ve only spoken to twice at cocktail parties."

"I'm just looking out for you," Chloe said, though her eyes strayed once more to the street where Vivienne had made her grand entrance. "Someone has to make sure you stay on the right path."

Vivienne nodded, but as she picked up her fork, her mind drifted back to the gate. To the letter she hadn't picked up. To the feeling that, for all her father’s billions and for all the horsepower under her feet, she was driving toward something she couldn't outrun.

"To the right path," Vivienne toasted, clinking her glass against Chloe’s.

But as the cold champagne hit her throat, she couldn't help but wonder if the "right path" was starting to feel a lot like a dead end.