Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the Library
The mahogany-paneled library smelled of old leather and rain. A single brass floor lamp cast a harsh, amber pool of light over the Persian rug where Vivienne sat alone in a high-backed leather wingback chair.
She had discarded her composure entirely. Her sapphire gown was slightly rumpled, her mascara smeared beneath her eyes from hours of quiet, desperate realization that her game was up.
When the heavy oak door creaked open, Damian stepped into the room. He didn't look like a billionaire groom preparing for a society wedding; he looked like an executioner.
He tossed the bundle of letters onto the mahogany desk in front of her. They scattered across the polished wood, the red ribbon trailing like a streak of dried blood.
Vivienne flinched, but forced her chin up. “Where did you find those?”
“In Sofia’s room,” Damian said, his voice dangerously low. “In the hidden compartment you forgot to check when you broke into her quarters the night you murdered her.”
“Murdered her?!” Vivienne shrieked, standing up so fast her chair screeched against the floor. “You’re insane! Sofia had a stroke! The doctors signed the death certificate! Are you losing your mind over a dead maid and a piece of vintage jewelry?”
“She didn't have a stroke, Vivienne,” Damian said, walking slowly toward her, his shadow swallowing her whole. “She had a synthetic paralytic injected into her bloodstream by someone who had access to the Manhattan medical clinic board rooms. Someone who needed her out of the way before she could expose the fact that the secret relationship we supposedly shared was entirely a fabrication—a trap set by you to maneuver your way into my estate.”
Vivienne stared at him, her chest heaving. The frantic panic in her eyes suddenly gave way to a cold, jagged smile. She smoothed down her dress, her posture straightening as she realized denial was no longer a viable strategy.
“You figured that part out, did you?” she whispered, her voice dropping all pretense of sweetness. “It wasn't hard, Damian. You were so blind, buried in your mergers and your balance sheets. You never noticed how easy it was to manipulate your correspondence, to make you think Sofia was blackmailing you.”
“Why?” Damian asked, his voice shaking with a rage so deep it barely registered on his face. “You had a seat on my board. You had a place in my world. Why murder an innocent woman?”
“Because Sofia found the corporate wire transfers,” Vivienne snapped, her eyes flashing with venom. “She found the documents proving I was quietly draining Vance Global accounts through shell companies while you were busy playing king of Wall Street. She threatened to show you. She thought her little position as head housekeeper gave her the right to judge me!”
“So you poisoned her,” Damian said, his fist clenching at his side. “And you took her ring.”
“I wanted a souvenir,” Vivienne laughed bitterly, a shrill, manic sound. “A little trophy to remind myself how stupid brilliant men can be. And honestly? It looked better on my finger than it ever did on hers.”
Damian didn't yell. He didn't strike her. He simply walked over to the library doors and pulled them open.
Marco was waiting in the hallway, flanked by two men in dark suits holding federal identification badges.
“Detective Miller,” Damian said, nodding to the lead agent. “The suspect has confessed to corporate embezzlement, breaking and entering, and premeditated homicide. The evidence is on the desk.”
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Vivienne’s face lost every trace of color. She lunged forward toward Damian, her fingernails clawing at the air. “Damian! You can't do this to me! I’m your fiancée! We’re part of the same world! The board will destroy you if you drag my name through the mud!”
“We aren't in the same world, Vivienne,” Damian said as Marco gently but firmly pulled her arms behind her back, snapping heavy steel handcuffs around her wrists. “You were just a guest in mine.”
