Chapter 8 - The Return
The rain had turned to sleet, coating the iron gates of the Draven estate in a thin, glittering sheet of ice.
From the treeline across the secondary service road, Vivian watched through a pair of military-grade binoculars borrowed from Marcus Vance’s trunk. The main house was brightly lit, its tall French windows glowing yellow against the dark Virginia hills. Two black SUVs were parked near the portico, their engines idling, exhaust plumes rising into the freezing air.
"This is insane," Marcus muttered from the driver’s seat. "You're seven months pregnant, you have half of Matteo’s enforcers looking for you across three counties, and you want to walk back onto the grounds?"
"They won't be looking inside the perimeter," Vivian said, keeping her eyes fixed on the servants' entrance near the greenhouse. "They’re scouring the highways, the bus terminals, and the motels. Viktor’s protocol is always external sweep first, internal containment second. He won't believe I came back."
"And Camille?" Evelyn asked, leaning over the console. "What makes you think she’ll even talk to you instead of screaming for Viktor the second she sees you?"
"Because she’s alone," Vivian said, lowering the binoculars. "Matteo took the security detail out on the highway sweep. Only a skeleton crew is left on the gates tonight."
She didn't wait for their permission. She slipped out of the sedan into the freezing drizzle, her boots sinking softly into the mud as she made her way toward the same broken section of wrought-iron fencing she had crawled through less than twenty-four hours ago.
The cold didn't register this time. The dull ache in her lower back was a distant background noise compared to the clarity burning behind her ribs.
She made her way through the dormant rows of apple trees, keeping low beneath the shadow of the boxwood hedges until she reached the root cellar hatch. It was unlocked—either because the staff hadn't finished clearing the debris from the party or because no one in that house believed an iron gate could stop what was coming.
She slipped through the service passage behind the scullery, her fingers trailing over the familiar wooden studs until she reached the back of her own closet. The sliding panel was still ajar.
Inside the bedroom, everything was exactly as she had left it. The wedding ring still sat on Matteo’s white pillow like a tiny, accusing eye.
The connecting door to Camille’s guest suite was closed, but a thin strip of light shone beneath the molding. Vivian didn't knock. She turned the brass handle and pushed the door open.
Camille was sitting at the vanity table, her makeup half-removed, staring at her own reflection with a glass of un-iced vodka in her hand. She turned sharply at the sound of the hinge, her breath catching in her throat as she saw Vivian standing in the doorway in a borrowed parka and wet hair.
"Vivian," Camille whispered, the glass slipping from her fingers to shatter against the hardwood floor. "They said... they said you were in North Carolina."
"They lied," Vivian said, stepping into the room and closing the door softly behind her. "Just like Matteo lied about our father's debt. Just like he lied about the land titles."
Camille’s face went chalk-white. She gripped the edge of the vanity, her lower lip trembling. "I didn't want to sign those papers, Viv. He said... he said if I didn't, we’d lose the house, the insurance, everything."
May you like
"He said the same thing to me about our marriage," Vivian said, stopping two feet away from her sister. "Only he didn't use papers for me. He used a ring."
---
