For ten years Vivian had learned how to move through Moretti Homes: soft deferrals, quick fixes, the brittle politeness that kept the company breathing. This morning none of that applied. She launched herself across the floor toward the CEO's door and anyone who crossed her path stepped aside.
She slipped through the glass and saw him—Alfred Nate—half risen from the leather chair. He looked small in the morning light.
"Get out." Her voice cut the hum of the office
Michael exhaled. Slow and tired "He knows Vivian. You might as well say it." he did not meet her eyes.
Vivian felt like vertigo—anger at Alfred for knowing, anger at Michael for sounding so resigned. Her palms went damp. "Care to explain to me why the district attorney was in my office threatening to bring the law down on me?" She said. The question landed like cold water.
Michael's hands found the glass table. He did not speak. Alfred tugged at his tie until the knot looked ridiculous.
"I was going to tell you." Michael's voice was small—too small for how big the conversation was. The words weighed him,even the dazzling morning sun failed to paint hope into his face. His eyes fell back into their sockets.
Vivian swayed. She felt like peeling her skin with her fingernails—to inflict injury before Vincent caught her. There was enough scandal already—enough to break Vincent—how could she let more add.
"The ten million?" She kept her voice flat. "That was you?"
He flinched "Yes. But—"
"But what?" Vivian cut in. She was steady because if she fell apart here it would give the rest of the world permission to do same. "He trusted you to hold his legacy. You don't drop that"
Michale turned away. "I was temporary. I was going to fix it"
"A temporary set back?" She let out a laugh that was half a sob. "You call the DA a temporary set back?"
For a brief moment she weighed her options. With a flat resolve she turned to Michael.
"We have to tell Vincent." She walked to the door.
"We can't."
"Yes we can and we are" she reached for the door.
"Vivian listen to me." Michael jumped out of the chair and reached for her. He yanked her by the arm back.
"Listen to me!" Michael yelled—the glass walls trembled, it was the roar of a man who had had a gun to his head and his last hope to stop the trigger had vanished.
Michael turned to Alfred. "Leave us." He left.
Michael undid his tie. He gripped his chest and winced.
"Water" he said weakly,his voice dry and flat.
Vivian—suddenly alarmed by his uneven breathing poured a glass. He swallowed in one gulp. He gripped the table for support.
"I've ruined us Vivian" He said. The shape of the confession folded him small.
"It was not supposed to be like this" He cried bitterly.
"what are you talking about?" Vivian said. Her voice caught the softness of his now.
"Someone found the pictures. They threatened to send them to Sheila. I paid them off. I. I—couldn't think of anything else."
He went on. "Then they were back asking for another ten million. I had to take it from the company's money."
The floor tilted Vivian imagined Harvey—the face that only ever loved her. For a second she did not know which ruin terrified her more: the law coming for the company, or the private wreckage waiting at home. The sun that had been dazzling in the windows now felt like a spotlight on everything she'd done wrong
"I don't know how the DA caught whim of this." His life was unraveling before him. Thirty years of marriage and a family of four was going to break.
Yet this was only one thing—if the DA were to go sniffing more he'd dig up his skeletons and loosing his family would be the least of his worries.
Shit! He was not taking a bullet for Vincent. The voice suddenly whispered to him. I never liked the boy to begin with.
"Vivian are you listening to me?"
She looked at him.
"He offered me a deal. Us or Vincent." Michael straightened up and adjusted his tie. His tears were gone, his face that had looked like a dead man's now brighten a little, he forced a grin.
"He has many sins already—he might as well have the killed the priest for all I know."
Vivian wanted to strike him—not because he'd erred, but because he could say such things with a politician's ease. Her hands curled into fist. She could taste metal. The office waited. The air stilled.
She had always sworn that if it came to it, she'd confess anything to protect a friend. But that was courage imagined in comfort—now life was here, and it demanded proof
She slumped into the chair and let the sun judge her
***
That night, a weary Jennifer returned to the estate. Beaten by the day, she was little more than a husk walking.
She had woken with a sickening fear—that the other models wouldn't approve of her sudden rise into the spotlight. She was right. Not only did they disapprove, they made it their day's mission to rain on her parade. Natalia had outright declared war. Cookie had tried his best to shield her, but it only dragged him into the line of fire; he caught a few shells himself.
Yet none of that frightened her as much as William's sudden interest. Try as she might, he was everywhere—intruding into her work, offering corrections, deciding where she should place her feet and how to tilt her neck. Maybe, she told herself, he was simply passionate about modeling, not about her. She tried to believe it.
But no. She shook her head.
What mattered now was that she was home. She would take a hot bath, maybe soak until her worries dissolved, then eat dinner. Her stomach growled at the thought.
She climbed the left-hand staircase. Perhaps she'd stop by his study later—pretend to read the titles on his shelves and steal a few moments just to watch him work. Halfway up, she stopped and pressed her palms to her cheeks, feeling the warmth rise under her cheeks.
Stupid girl. Don't go blushing. She scolded herself.
That was when she caught it—the scent. It was so rich it almost spoke: a whisper of garlic melting into butter, the deep, smoky perfume of seared beef, the faint crispness of rosemary drifting through the air.
The mansion was quiet, save for the soft hiss of a pan somewhere down the hall. Warm light spilled from the kitchen.
Vincent? Her heart betrayed her by leaping. Blood surged through her veins. Why was he cooking?
As she drew closer, the aroma deepened—savory, indulgent, almost sinful. The kind of smell that wrapped around the heart and said, someone made this for you.
On the long marble counter, a plate waited: steak glistening in golden butter, edges perfectly charred, flanked by roasted potatoes dusted with herbs and sea salt. Steam rose from them like a sigh. She swallowed hard.
At the sink, a figure too short to be Vincent rinsed a pan. The water sputtered, then ceased. The figure turned.
"Just standing there? I thought the stress of work would have you tearing into this like a hyena before a carcass."
Elena Moretti smiled warmly. She wore a red robe—the very one Jennifer had worn that morning.
"Sit, please. You can't enjoy a bite once the butter grows cold." Her voice was light, almost playful, so unlike that morning's sharpness.
Jennifer set her bag on the counter and pulled out a chair. Her eyes flicked around the kitchen.
"He's not here," Elena said, reading her thoughts. "I didn't meet him when I came back."
Jennifer nodded faintly.
"I call it Butter's Love Kiss," Elena said with a soft laugh. She looked up at the ceiling, as if recalling some distant memory. "Oh, how I charmed my father-in-law with this very dish. He once said he'd marry me himself if his son wouldn't."
"Vincent's grandfather?" Jennifer asked—instantly regretting the foolishness of the question.
"Vincent?" Elena's brow rose. The girl had called her son by his first name. Jennifer saw the judgment in her eyes long before the woman spoke.
"You're on a first-name basis. You must have something on him to make him treat you this way." Her gaze didn't waver. "Tell me—are you carrying his child?"
Jennifer shook her head. "No."
"His mistress, then?"
Again she shook her head. "No."
"Then what are you to him?" The question was brutal but honest. Jennifer couldn't blame her—it was a mother's duty to measure the women around her son. But she was caught speechless. What was she to Vincent? He had saved her life. They'd shared kisses, moments—but nothing she could name when faced with a question like this. The silence between them grew heavy.
"Well," Elena said finally, "he's never been wrong about people." Then she paused, hissed softly. "Except for that Donovan girl."
Jennifer caught the tone—regret. Regret for being absent when her son needed her most.
Elena turned back to her. Her lips curled. "Girl, I despise when my meals grow cold."
Jennifer picked up the cutlery. In the few weeks she'd spent here, she'd learned to eat with a knife and fork. She sliced a piece of steak and placed it in her mouth. It melted like butter—and for a moment, so did her heart.
"It's good," she said.
"It's a masterpiece," Elena replied, cutting herself a portion. She exhaled sharply as she chewed.
They ate in silence for a while, words trembling at the edges of their tongues. Finally, Elena spoke.
"Veloura Models," she said. "What hole did he dig you from to put you there? He's trying to make you something you're not."
The words were dripped with venom. They stung.
Jennifer chose her words carefully. "I grew up in L.A.," she said, then added softly, "in a foster home."
"And you're a prostitute." The bluntness struck like a slap. There were no coats of sugar in Elena's wardrobe—only honesty, raw and unadorned.
The truth stung all over again.
"I was."
"Was?" Elena scoffed. "That life never leaves you, no matter how far you run. It only takes the right price."
"I'm not like that." Jennifer didn't know where the strength came from, but her blood hissed at the insult.
Elena's eyes narrowed. "I can't think of another reason you're here. You have a body that can make men drunk. Maybe that's why he chose you. He has his father's eyes."
Ego clung to her voice like a stain. Jennifer's appetite vanished. She pushed her chair back and rose.
"Thank you for the meal," she said, trying to sound grateful.
"Makes me wonder what your parents looked like," Elena said idly.
Jennifer froze mid-step. Rage darkened her vision. How dare she.
She turned. "And what are you supposed to be?"
Elena's eyes sharpened. "What did you say to me?"
"You talk like some saint who crawled out of the Bible," Jennifer snapped, "when you're just a woman who tucked her tail and ran when marriage got hard."
"How dare you!"
"How dare me? How dare you spit on my parents' memory! Have you no respect for the dead—or have the years of regret rotted you from the inside?"
She wanted to stop, but something inside her burned too hot to silence.
"You dare judge me?" Jennifer's voice rose. "Yes, I slept with men—to survive. What did this world give me? Do you think I had a family name or old money to fall back on? All I had was my body—and I used it as I saw fit." Her voice cracked. Tears came before she could stop them.
"You have no idea what I've endured to get here. And Vincent—he's the only man who ever treated me with kindness. The only man who didn't take advantage of me." Why was she crying? She had promised not to feel week again, not before people like this.
She wiped her tears roughly. "The same man you abandoned for twenty years. So before you come here and play saint, thank God your son learned compassion instead of the bitterness you left him with."
It was then they both heard footsteps in the doorway.
They turned.
In the dim light stood Vincent—still as a ghost, his face pale, his eyes burning like a furnace. They fixed on Jennifer unblinking—as if he feared she might vanish if he did.
Jennifer grabbed her bag and rushed past him. He reached out but caught only air.
She slammed her door shut and leaned against it. His voice came softly through the wood, calling her name.
She sank to the floor and wept.