When I got back into the car, I had only one thought:
I need to get the hell away from that woman.
Not because she was frightening.
Not because she had the kind of intense stare usually reserved for dramatic movie posters.
Not even because she was suspiciously beautiful in a way that made me uncomfortably aware of my own breathing.
No.
The reason I needed distance was much, MUCH simpler:
She was the CEO of Stark Industries.
The Hawthornes' biggest corporate rival.
Which made her, effectively, a walking, talking financial landmine.
One wrong move, and I could accidentally trigger a scandal so huge my family would launch me into the sun.
I slumped into the seat, clutching my bag to my chest.
"What was that?" I muttered. "Why did she look at me like that? Why did she say my name like she was unveiling a prophecy?"
The driver glanced at me via the mirror. "Miss?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just having an existential crisis. Please drive."
He nodded without a single sign of concern, which told me he had probably heard worse from the Hawthorne family.
As we pulled away from the shopping district, I caught one last glimpse of the boutique's glass windows. Marian Stark was still inside. Still watching. A statue carved from quiet intensity.
I ducked behind the seat instinctively.
Nope. No thank you. I refused to become a subplot in a corporate espionage arc.
The moment we arrived at the estate, Father was waiting at the top of the marble steps like an ominous gargoyle in a designer suit.
His expression: neutral.
Which, in Hawthorne language, meant: you are in deep trouble.
I got out of the car slowly.
"Father," I greeted.
"Violet."
He said my name without warmth or anger—just awareness. The kind that made my stomach twist.
"May I ask," he said, "why you were seen in a public shopping district, unattended, less than twenty-four hours after being discharged from the hospital?"
Ah.
So he had people watching me.
Of course.
I straightened my posture, tried to look responsible, and attempted a lie that would make past me slap current me in the face.
"I needed… socks."
Father blinked. "Socks."
"Yes. Very important socks. Executive socks."
He stared at me hard enough to peel back layers of my soul.
Then he said, "The Hawthorne family cannot afford rumors or misunderstandings. Especially involving Stark Industries."
My blood went cold.
Father continued, his tone crisp
"Stark Industries is volatile. Their CEO is unpredictable. And the last thing we need is the press misinterpreting a 'chance encounter' as collusion. Or worse—negotiation."
Oh.
OH.
So they had seen Marian.
They had definitely seen Marian.
I swallowed.
"Yes, sir," I said quietly. "It won't happen again."
He nodded. "See that it doesn't."
He turned and walked away, a silent shadow following him down the hall.
I exhaled, slumping.
Great. Amazing. Wonderful.
I had successfully terrified myself AND drawn unwanted parental attention.
I went to my room and collapsed face-first on the bed.
"I need to avoid her," I mumbled into the pillow. "She's like… like a final boss battle..or more accurately like a villainess. She's too pretty, too calm, and WAY too rich."
Also, the fact that she'd said my name with such unsettling familiarity—
"Wait…"
I slowly sat up.
"Why DOES she know my name?"
She'd said it without hesitation. No shock. No confusion. Not even curiosity. As if she'd been waiting years for me to turn around and acknowledge her.
I rubbed my forehead.
think… think…
Had original Violet known Marian?
No.
The novel never mentioned any interaction.
No secret friendships.
No corporate alliances.
No childhood flashbacks.
Nothing.
So why…?
I shook the thought away.
Whatever it was, it was not my problem.
My only goal was to stay out of trouble, collect money, and live peacefully like a well-fed cat.
That night, Mack came home.
I heard him before I saw him—his footsteps were heavy, tired, the sound of someone who'd fought with spreadsheets and incompetent managers all day.
I was sitting in the living room, wrapped in a soft blanket, eating fruit cut neatly by a maid (a luxury I would fully abuse until death). When Mack entered, he paused.
"You're not in your room," he said, sounding faintly surprised.
"I'm branching out," I replied, biting into a grape. "Becoming a person who occupies more than one location."
He blinked. "Right."
He walked over and sat across from me, undoing the top button of his shirt. He looked more exhausted up close—subtle lines under his eyes, a tension in his shoulders. The CEO life was crushing him slowly.
"Long day?" I asked.
He gave a slow nod. "There was a negotiation with Stark Industries."
My grape froze halfway to my mouth.
"…Stark Industries?"
"Yes. Their CEO—Marian Stark—is becoming increasingly aggressive in her expansion tactics. I had to spend two hours convincing our shareholders that we weren't under immediate threat."
"Oh," I said weakly. "That sounds… stressful."
"It is."
Silence settled between us for a moment. Then Mack's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Did something happen today?" he asked suddenly.
"Wh—what? No! Why?"
"You're acting unusually calm."
"I am a very calm person," I lied.
"No," he said bluntly. "You're not."
Ah.
So original Violet had been a walking tantrum.
Good to know.
"I'm just… adjusting to things," I hedged. "New life perspective after nearly dying and all."
Mack studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Understandable."
Before I could relax, he added:
"Just make sure you don't draw unnecessary attention. Father would be… displeased."
My stomach tightened.
Had he seen the boutique incident too?
"Mack," I said slowly, "hypothetically… if someone were to accidentally walk into the same store as the CEO of Stark Industries, and not talk to her or cause a scene—hypothetically—would that be bad?"
He stared.
Then: "Yes."
"Ah."
"Extremely."
"Ah."
He leaned forward, clasping his hands. "Violet… do not underestimate her. Marian Stark is—"
He hesitated.
Unusual.
Unpredictable.
Intense.
Dangerous.
Pick any word and it would've fit.
"—ruthless," he finished.
Not the word I expected.
But it worked.
"Do not get involved with her," he said seriously. "For your safety and for the family's image."
I nodded vigorously.
"Oh trust me," I said. "I have no intention of getting involved with ANY CEO of ANYTHING ever again. Especially not her."
He exhaled, relieved. "Good."
He left for his office, and I curled back on the couch, heart pounding.
This was fine.
Everything was fine.
I just had to avoid Marian Stark.
Forever.
How hard could that be?
Turns out it would be very hard.
Because the next day at the office, I saw something horrifying.
It was not a crime.
It was not a fire.
It was not an Omega going into heat in the middle of the elevator (thank god).
No.
It was a poster.
A poster announcing:
HAWTHORNE x STARK — Joint Charity Gala
Attendance required for executives and family members.
I stared at it.
The poster stared back.
"…No," I whispered.
A coworker walked by. "Oh! Miss Hawthorne, are you excited?"
"Excited?" I croaked. "For a public event with cameras? With my rival CEO? With a person I never want to see again in my life?"
They stared at me in horror until I forced a smile.
"Oh yes. So excited."
They fled.
I leaned against the wall and put my head in my hands.
This was a nightmare.
Why did the plot insist on chasing me?
Why did fate want me to suffer?
Why was Marian Stark everywhere I went like a beautiful, terrifying, stalking shadow?
I inhaled deeply.
Okay.
Plan:
Stay far away from Marian at the gala.
Do not make eye contact.
Do not talk.
Do not breathe in her direction.
Do not even form coherent thoughts near her in case she could read minds.
Avoid her.
Easy.
Then I remembered how she had said my name yesterday.
Soft.
Intent.
Like she'd been waiting years.
My skin prickled.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
Unknown: Let's talk soon, Violet.
I nearly threw the phone.
"…HOW did she get my number?!"
But the worst part was
I already knew who sent it.
Marian Stark.
The plot wasn't chasing me.
It was hunting me.