Vivienne's pupils contracted to pinpoints.
She fumbled for her phone with shaking hands. The second the screen lit up, the flood hit. Messages, dozens of them, cascading one after another until the notifications blurred together.
Her closest friends had reached out, worried, asking questions. There were so many messages she didn't even know where to begin explaining.
None of this had happened in her previous life.
Back then, she hadn't refused Tristram's proposal. His plan had gone off without a hitch, so smoothly he'd never needed this backup measure at all.
If she'd shown even the slightest resistance during that proposal, would she have seen his true face sooner? Would she have avoided dying the way she did?
She drew a long breath to steady herself. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her hands were calm as she typed out a message to her lawyer.
She forwarded every AI-fabricated photo her friends had sent her, asking him to bring in a forensic technician to confirm the images used deepfake face-swapping.
Then she instructed him to file a defamation lawsuit against Tristram once the evidence was locked down.
When all of that was done, Vivienne turned back to Leslie and held out her open palm：
“Give me back the carving I gave you. I made that by hand for the man I'd marry someday. You don't deserve it.”
Leslie's expression soured, but he still reached into his pocket without argument, pulled out his car keys, and unhooked the small wooden carving that had hung there all this time. He tossed it back to her.
“You really are petty. You think I care about some worthless trinket?”
He turned and left without another word, face dark. Beside him, Tristram instinctively reached out his hand, assuming Vivienne was about to give the carving to him.
His hand closed on nothing. Vivienne dropped the carving into the nearest trash can.
“It's been tainted. Not good enough for my future husband.”
She stepped around Tristram and walked away without a backward glance, without seeing the look on his face.
It was two in the morning when a deafening crash jolted her out of sleep.
The front door of her apartment had been kicked in from the outside.
Before Vivienne could react, the covers were ripped away. An ice-cold hand locked around her wrist and dragged her off the bed.
She screamed, thrashing against the grip.
She wore nothing but a thin nightgown. Half-dressed, she was hauled into the living room, and only then, by the moonlight spilling through the window, did she see who it was.
“Tristram, have you lost your mind?”
Her voice shook. Tristram didn't answer. His face was blank and cold as he dragged her toward the door, forced her outside, and shoved her into a black SUV.
The vehicle tore through the empty streets and finally stopped in front of a private clinic.
Vivienne was dragged through the corridors and strapped to a hospital bed.
“Tristram, what the hell are you doing!”
He stood in the doorway, watching her with a flat, dead stare：
“Noelle's heart condition flared up. She needs heart's blood from a close relative to save her life.”
“She had an episode because you upset her today. You owe her this. It's just a little blood from the heart. You don't have a problem with that, do you?”
Vivienne's eyes went wide：
“What are you talking about? 'Heart's blood' curing heart disease? There is zero medical basis for that!”
But Tristram turned and walked out as if he hadn't heard a single word, heading to the next room to check on Noelle.
As they wheeled her toward the operating room, Vivienne passed the open door of that neighboring room and heard her father asking Tristram：
“Tristram, will this really help with Noelle's condition?”
The man's voice came slow and unhurried, like a devil whispering at her ear：
“Don't worry, Mr. Whitmore. Noelle's illness is really more psychological than physical.”
“She got upset because of what Vivienne did today, and the stress triggered the episode.”
“Once I take Vivienne's heart's blood and settle the score for Noelle, she'll feel better. And when her mood improves, her heart will follow.”
A single tear slid from the corner of her eye. She watched the operating room doors slam shut in front of her, and all the fight drained out of her body.
So Tristram knew. He knew heart's blood couldn't treat a heart condition. All he wanted was to punish her, to make her pay for upsetting Noelle.
But the next second, she saw the doctor approaching with surgical instruments and no syringe of anesthesia in sight, and the terror flooded back into her eyes.
The doctor must have read her face. Pity flickered in his gaze as he spoke：
“I'm sorry, Ms. Whitmore. Mr. Simmons gave us explicit orders not to use any anesthetic on you. There's nothing we can do.”
“But I've been doing this for over thirty years. I'll be as gentle as I can.”
The blade parted her skin and every nerve screamed the sensation straight to her brain. Vivienne's shriek tore through the room.
She felt the needle push directly into her heart, and her mind nearly broke apart.
As the blood left her body, each breath grew shallower than the last, her awareness dissolving at the edges.
Finally she slipped under, and with the darkness came the only mercy she'd get: release from a pain carved into the marrow of her soul.
