The taxi crawled through the mid-morning gridlock of Manhattan. Every stoplight felt like a personal insult. Vivian chewed on her thumbnail, tasting chipped polish and anxiety.
She dialed Margo.
"What do you mean 'worse'?" Vivian demanded the second the call connected.
"Where have you been?" Margo shrieked. "TMZ has a video of you entering Blackwood's building at 3 AM. Twitter is calling it the 'Billion Dollar Walk of Shame'. Dior just called. They're pulling the perfume campaign."
"I don't care about the perfume," Vivian lied. She cared. That campaign was the only thing she had earned herself. "Tell me about the family."
"Your dad," Margo's voice dropped an octave. "He collapsed an hour ago. Ambulance took him from the office."
Vivian dropped the phone. It clattered onto the rubber floor mat of the cab.
"Turn around," she yelled at the driver, leaning forward. "Go to Mount Sinai. Now!"
Thirty minutes later, the taxi screeched to a halt in front of the emergency entrance. Vivian threw a wad of cash at the driver and sprinted inside, ignoring the fact that she was barefoot and wearing a torn evening gown.
The VIP waiting room on the fourth floor was silent as a tomb.
Her stepmother, Yvonne, was sitting on a beige sofa, perfectly coiffed, not a hair out of place. But her knuckles were white as she gripped a styrofoam cup. Conrad, her half-brother, was pacing by the window, talking aggressively into his phone.
"Vivian," Yvonne said. Her voice was brittle. She looked at Vivian's feet. "You look like a whore."
Vivian ignored her. "Where is he? Is he alive?"
Conrad hung up his phone and turned. He was ten years older than Vivian, with the same sharp Sterling jawline but none of the charm. "He's in a coma. Massive stroke. Doctors don't know if he'll wake up."
Vivian felt the blood drain from her face. She reached for the back of a chair to steady herself. "I need to see him."
"You need to leave," Conrad sneered. He walked over and poked a finger into her shoulder. "This is your fault. He saw the photos of you and Hunter. He saw the live stream of your little breakdown at the club. The stress killed him."
"He's not dead!" Vivian slapped his hand away.
Conrad shoved her. It wasn't a hard shove, but in her barefoot, unstable state, it was enough. Vivian stumbled back and fell onto the carpeted floor. Her palms skidded, burning.
"Stop it!" Yvonne hissed. She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Both of you. The lawyers are already here."
Vivian looked up. Three men in gray suits were standing in the corner, looking at their iPads. They were the family's legal team. Vultures.
"What are they doing here?" Vivian asked, scrambling to her feet.
"Protecting the assets," Conrad said, adjusting his tie. "With Dad incapacitated, the board is going to vote on an interim CEO tomorrow. And guess who has the votes?"
He smirked.
Yvonne walked over to Vivian. She grabbed Vivian's upper arm, her nails digging into the soft flesh. She pulled her into the hallway, away from Conrad and the lawyers.
"Listen to me," Yvonne whispered, her eyes wide and manic. "It's not just Conrad. The bastards are coming."
Vivian blinked. "The who?"
"The illegitimate ones. Your father's... mistakes." Yvonne's lip curled. "We've received word. Letters of intent. They smell blood in the water, Vivian. There are rumors of at least a dozen of them organizing. If they band together and challenge the will now that your father is vulnerable, they could tie everything up in probate for years. We lose the house. We lose the liquid cash. We are on the street."
Vivian felt the walls closing in. "But... we have lawyers."
"Those idiots inside?" Yvonne scoffed. "They are corporate shills. They can't handle a dirty inheritance war. We need a shark. We need someone who plays dirty."
Yvonne stared at Vivian, her gaze piercing. "We need Julian Blackwood."
Vivian recoiled. "No. Absolutely not. I just... I can't."
"You spent the night with him," Yvonne hissed. "Use it."
"He hates us, Mom. He hates me."
"I don't care if he hates you," Yvonne said, shaking her. "I don't care if you have to get on your knees and beg. If you don't get him to represent us, Conrad will cut us out, or the bastards will take it all. You have nothing, Vivian. Without that trust fund, you are nothing."
Vivian looked at her stepmother. She saw the fear behind the cruelty. She looked back at the closed door of the ICU where her father lay dying.
She realized then that the fairytale was over. The safety net was gone.
She took a deep breath, smoothing the torn silk of her dress.
"I'll get him," Vivian said. Her voice was hollow. "But I'm going to need some shoes."
