The scent of roses clung to the air as Vivienne stepped back into Rosemoor's west garden—the one her mother had once called The Heart. Untamed vines crawled up the old trellis, thorns sharp as blades. The garden had long since been left to rot, yet beneath the decay, color still bloomed defiantly.
Like memory refusing to die.
Vivienne walked among the wild paths, her fingers trailing across the petals of a blood-red hybrid rose—her mother's favorite. She remembered helping her prune them every spring, before the world darkened, before the whispers started.
Before disappearance became the language of grief.
Damien followed behind her, silent. Watching. Guarding.
She stopped near the fountain—dry, cracked, a statue of a woman pouring nothing from her vase.
"I hated this place for years," she said. "I used to think it had swallowed her."
"It didn't," Damien said gently. "People did."
Vivienne turned to him. "The names in the vault... there were more than I expected. Including one I never imagined."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Judge Malden," she said. "The one who signed the papers to seal the Rosemoor investigation. The same man who gave your father immunity."
Damien's face darkened. "He's untouchable."
"Not anymore," Vivienne said. "We have records. Calls. Deposits. I'll take it to the press. The right ones. An anonymous leak."
"That will bring war."
"It already has."
Damien walked closer. "You're not afraid of burning everything down, are you?"
Vivienne looked up at him, the rose still between her fingers. "No. I'm afraid of leaving it standing."
They stood in the garden, the last of the sun casting gold onto thorns.
Then he said, "There's something else you need to see."
Back inside the estate, Damien led her down into the old cellar. Not the wine vault—deeper. Into the crypt levels where the original D'Arcy family kept their records and heirlooms.
At the far end was a rusted iron gate.
Damien unlocked it with a key Vivienne didn't know he had.
"How—?"
"Your father gave it to me," he said. "The day before he died."
Inside was a chamber no bigger than a chapel, filled with ledgers and a single stone sarcophagus. On top of it: a silver box.
Vivienne stepped toward it slowly.
"Open it," Damien said.
Inside was a stack of handwritten letters.
From her mother.
The first line made her knees weaken.
> My sweet Vivienne,
If you're reading this, it means I failed to escape. But it also means you've become what I never could: free.
Tears blurred her vision, but she kept reading.
> Your father and I tried to protect you from both bloodlines. But the truth was always waiting. The Vale name and the D'Arcy legacy are more tangled than you know. Once, we thought we could outrun it. Now I see—only fire can cleanse what rot has touched.
Vivienne sank to the stone floor, the letter trembling in her hands.
Damien knelt beside her. "You don't have to do this alone."
"I never did," she said, voice raw. "They just wanted me to believe I did."
She folded the letter and pressed it to her chest. "I'm going to finish what they started."
He touched her cheek. "Even if it destroys everything?"
She looked at him then—not the son of a monster, not a weapon sharpened by legacy, but the man who had stood beside her as the shadows closed in.
"I'm done being afraid of destruction."
She stood.
"I am the storm now."