Vivienne Laurent-Cassel had been raised to believe that composure could save anything.
A reputation.
A marriage.
A company.
A bloodline.
A lie.
If your voice stayed calm enough, people would question their own anger before they questioned you. If your hands did not shake, people assumed you still held control. If your smile remained soft, they forgot to look for the knife.
Vivienne had built an entire life on that lesson.
But now?
Now her hands were shaking.
And everyone could see.
The Laurent-Cassel penthouse, usually a palace of polished silence and tasteful wealth, had become something ugly. Phones rang nonstop. Assistants whispered in corners. Lawyers argued over speakerphone. Her father paced near the windows with his jaw locked tight, while her mother sat at the head of the table like a queen preparing to order an execution.
And Gabriel Vale stood across from Vivienne with eyes so cold, she almost wished he would yell again.
