Vivian ran.
She didn't run like a socialite late for a brunch; she ran like an operative whose cover had been blown. She took the service stairs, ignoring the burning in her calves and the fact that she was holding her high heels in one hand. The plush carpet of the corridor gave way to cold concrete.
She burst out into the alleyway behind the club at 4:00 AM. The city was grey, suspended in that eerie quiet between the late-night revelers and the early-morning delivery trucks. Vivian leaned against the brick wall, gasping for air. She looked down at herself. The red silk dress was rumpled. There was a bruise forming on her wrist where he had gripped her.
She felt dirty. She felt exhilarated. She felt terrified.
Inside the Royal Court, on the 8th floor, the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
Lana Vane stepped out. She looked impeccable, even at this hour, though her eyes were sharp with predation. She had tipped the bartender fifty bucks to find out where Julian had gone.
She walked down the hallway, counting the numbers. 886... 887...
888.
The door was locked. Of course it was.
Lana didn't have a bobby pin or spy training. What she had was a lack of morals and sticky fingers. As a housekeeping cart rattled down the adjacent hall, the maid momentarily turned her back to grab fresh towels. Lana, moving with the speed of a viper, swiped the master key card from the top of the cart.
She waited for the maid to round the corner before swiping the card.
Beep. Green light.
Lana paused. A smile, slow and serpentine, curled her lips. She pushed the door open with a single, manicured finger.
The room was still dark, smelling of sex and musk. Lana's nose wrinkled, but her ambition smoothed the expression away. She pulled a small penlight from her clutch and clicked it on.
The beam swept across the room. It landed on the sofa.
Julian was asleep, sprawled out, a sheet tangled around his waist. His chest rose and fell in a deep rhythm. He looked vulnerable, a look the world never saw.
Lana stepped inside, careful not to make a sound. She was about to wake him, to stage a scene of concern, when the beam of light caught a glint on the floor.
She crouched down. Buried in the shag carpet, half-hidden by a discarded throw pillow, was a silver necklace.
Lana picked it up. It was heavy, old silver. An intricate locket. She didn't recognize the design, but she knew quality when she felt it.
She looked at the necklace. She looked at the sleeping billionaire. She looked at the empty space beside him where a woman had obviously been just minutes ago.
The math was simple. Julian was drugged (the bartender had mentioned he looked out of it). He had slept with someone. That someone had fled.
Lana Vane didn't believe in waste.
She unclasped the necklace and fastened it around her own neck. The cold metal sat against her collarbone like a claim.
She walked over to the mirror in the corner, ruffled her perfect blonde hair until it looked "bedhead chic," and smeared her lipstick just enough to suggest passion. Then, she walked over to the sofa and sat on the edge, close enough that her perfume-Chanel No. 5, generic and expensive-would drift over him.
"Julian?" she whispered, touching his shoulder.
Julian groaned. His eyes fluttered open. The headache was a dull throb now, but his memory was a shattered mirror. He remembered heat. He remembered a scent. He remembered a body that fit his perfectly.
He squinted. A blonde silhouette sat before him.
"Is it... you?" His voice was gravel.
Lana leaned down, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "It's me, Julian. I'm here. Last night... you were incredible."
Julian sat up, the sheet falling to his waist. He rubbed his face with both hands. He felt... satisfied. Physically, at least. But something felt off. The scent. The air smelled of Chanel now, overpowering the wild rose memory.
"I... I don't remember much," he admitted, looking at her.
Lana smiled, a soft, practiced expression she used for romantic comedies. "That's okay. You were a little out of it. But I took care of you."
Julian's eyes dropped to her neck. The silver locket glinted in the dim light.
He frowned. He had a vague, tactile memory of metal against his lips, of a chain tangling in his fingers.
"That necklace," he said.
Lana's hand flew to it, clutching it protectively. "Oh, this? You... you liked it last night."
The physical evidence overrode the glitch in his instinct. She was here. She had the necklace. She knew what happened.
Julian sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Right."
He didn't feel the spark he thought he had felt. He felt hollow. But Julian was a man of logic. If A plus B equaled C, then Lana was the woman he had just slept with.
"Gavin!" he called out, his voice returning to its usual command.
The door opened instantly. Gavin stepped in, holding a tray of coffee and aspirin. He stopped dead when he saw Lana sitting on the sofa, disheveled, next to a half-naked Julian.
"Sir?" Gavin's eyes went wide.
Lana stood up, pulling her dress straight with a mock-shy gesture. "Good morning, Gavin."
Julian stood up, unashamed of his nudity as he grabbed his trousers from the floor. "Get Miss Vane a car. And have someone bring a change of clothes for her. Something... appropriate."
"Yes, sir."
Julian walked to the bathroom. He paused at the door and looked back at Lana. She was beaming at him.
He felt a wave of nausea.
Meanwhile, in a cramped apartment in Queens, Vivian stood under the shower spray. The water was scalding hot, turning her skin pink. She scrubbed at her body with a loofah, trying to erase the phantom touch of Julian's hands.
"Stupid," she hissed at the tile wall. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
She turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping herself in a towel. She wiped the steam from the mirror.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her lips were swollen.
She walked into the living room where Winnie was snoring on the couch. Vivian turned on the small TV in the corner to drown out her own thoughts.
The morning news was on. A ticker tape scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
BREAKING NEWS: STERLING GROUP ACQUIRES BOUTIQUE DESIGN FIRM S.W. STUDIOS IN HOSTILE TAKEOVER.
Vivian froze. The towel slipped from her hand.
"No," she whispered.
S.W. Studios. Her studio. Her sanctuary. The place where 'Rose' existed.
The screen cut to a clip of a spokesperson. "Mr. Ford-Sterling sees great potential in the avant-garde designs of S.W. Studios and looks forward to integrating their talent into the Sterling family."
Vivian sank onto the floor.
She had just divorced the man. She had just slept with the man. And now... she worked for the man.
Fate wasn't just cruel; it was a sadist with a sense of humor.
