Lahat ng Kabanata ng Two worlds that collide: Kabanata 31 - Kabanata 40

​The sting on Vivienne’s cheek had faded to a dull, throbbing heat, but the fire in her chest was only growing. She stood before her vanity, layering concealer over the faint red mark her father had left—a physical manifestation of the Blackwood legacy. She wasn't crying anymore. The time for tears had ended when the lock clicked shut behind Arthur.​She needed to move. She needed to breathe air that didn't taste of oak and betrayal.​She grabbed her leather jacket and her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen. She pulled up her thread with Roman. Every instinct told her to run to him, to let the fortress gates close behind her and never look back. But her father’s voice—ungrateful brat, your mother would be disappointed—still echoed like a ghost.​VIVIENNE: Hey, I enjoyed every moment with you. But can you give me a few weeks to think and be straight about all this? I do love you, but I also want to be with the man my family chose. I can't let them down. Please give me some spa

​The air inside the Blackwood estate felt thin, stripped of its usual oxygen by the tension radiating from the two men standing in the study. Sunlight filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the silence. It was nearly midday, and the "future bride" was still a ghost.​Julian Montgomery stood by the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He had changed into a fresh suit, but the dark circles under his eyes betrayed a night spent in a state of controlled fury. He turned to face Arthur, who was slumped behind his massive mahogany desk, staring at a glass of untasted scotch.​"She isn't at Chloe’s apartment," Julian said, his voice a dangerous, low vibration. "I sent a car there an hour ago. No one answered. Her phone is off. GPS is dead. She’s vanished, Arthur. In the middle of the most critical week of our lives, your daughter has disappeared into thin air."​Arthur rubbed his temples, the weight of the previous night finally showin

​The afternoon sun hit the splintered wood of Chloe’s door, casting jagged shadows across the hallway. Inside, the apartment was eerily quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the shallow, ragged breathing of a woman who had become a ghost in her own home.​Lia, the head trainer at Chloe’s gym and her closest employee, frowned as she stood in the hallway. Chloe hadn't answered her texts for hours, and she had missed three morning sessions. That wasn't Chloe. Chloe lived for the grind.​"Chloe? You in there? The door is... oh my god."​Lia pushed the door, which swung open on a broken hinge. She stepped inside, her eyes widening at the overturned chairs and the shattered glass. Then, she saw the crumpled shape near the kitchen baseboards.​"Chloe!" Lia screamed, dropping her gym bag and sprinting across the room.​Chloe was unrecognizable. Her face was a landscape of deep purple hematomas and swelling. One eye was puffed shut, and her breathing was a hitched, wet sound that sug

​The office of Dr. Sterling Vance sat atop a glass tower in the heart of downtown, overlooking a sprawling American skyline that shimmered with the cold promise of industry. Everything about the space was designed to be "neutral"—the beige suede walls, the soft jazz playing at a low decentralized frequency, and the scent of expensive white tea. In the USA, even a marriage crisis was a luxury to be managed with precision.​Vivienne sat on the velvet sofa, her back straight enough to be an architectural feat. Beside her, Julian looked every bit the rising political star, dressed in a navy Italian-cut suit that screamed stability. They were here for their bi-weekly "Strategic Counseling Session," a prerequisite mandated by both families to ensure the union remained marketable before the wedding.​Dr. Vance, a man who had made a career out of fixing the unfixable for the one percent, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and looked at them over his leather-bound notebook.​"It’s good to see yo

​The Blackwood estate was no longer a home; it was a factory of matrimonial industry. Every corridor was lined with garment bags, silver trays, and frantic planners whispering into headsets. The air was thick with the scent of floor wax and the artificial sweetness of hundreds of imported flowers. But for Vivienne, the air was a poison.​She stood in the grand foyer, the morning light pouring through the stained glass and making her head spin. She had spent the last hour gripped by a cold, violent nausea that seemed to radiate from her very marrow. It was the third morning in a row she had woken up to the world tilting on its axis, her stomach revolting before she could even draw a full breath.​A sharp knock at the heavy oak doors made her flinch.​"Delivery for Ms. Blackwood," a muffled voice called out.​The head housekeeper, Martha, was occupied with the caterers, so Vivienne pulled the door open herself. A young woman stood there, holding a massive, overflowing arrangement of whi