Chapter 2
"Vivian! Have you completely lost your mind?!"
The penthouse door slammed open at seven AM.
Catherine Cole—Alexander's mother—stormed in wearing her signature Chanel suit and a face full of manufactured outrage. Her personal assistant scurried behind her like a frightened mouse.
"Do you have any idea what you've done? That sculpture was a PR centerpiece! The media is going insane! You've embarrassed the entire Cole family!"
I was calmly applying my lipstick in the mirror.
"Embarrassed? A centerpiece that smells like another woman's body spray—how is that my problem?"
"You—" Catherine sputtered. "You're just jealous! A proper wife should be understanding! Do you think great men don't have... needs?"
I capped my lipstick and turned slowly.
"Needs?"
I pulled up the video of Rebecca flaunting my choker and held it three inches from Catherine's face.
"This is what you call 'needs'? Taking the custom piece your son swore was mine alone—a piece that was photographed at our wedding and published in Vogue—and letting his secretary carve her name on it like a dog marking a fire hydrant?"
Catherine's face twitched, but she recovered fast, lifting her chin.
"She's just a secretary. You're his wife. Why lower yourself? Men get bored. Alexander will tire of her in a month and throw her out. If you can't handle that, you were never fit to be a Cole."
"Handle it?" I repeated.
I took one step toward her, then another. Catherine backed up until her calves hit the sofa.
"Three years ago, when Cole Industries was six months from bankruptcy, who came to me begging for help? Who cried in my living room saying 'Vivian, please, you're the only one smart enough to save us'?"
Catherine's face went white.
"That was—that was different—"
"Was it?" I kept advancing. "You promised me respect. You promised me Alexander would treat me as his equal. You said I'd be the queen of this family."
I leaned in close enough to smell her fear.
"And now you want me to smile while your son parades his whore around wearing my jewelry?"
"Don't you dare call her—"
"Get out."
My voice dropped to ice.
"And tell your son that the sculpture was just the beginning. If that choker isn't back in my safe—cleaned, repaired, and delivered on his knees—by tomorrow night..."
I smiled.
"I'll start shredding things that can't be glued back together. Like contracts. Like reputations. Like his entire net worth."
Catherine stared at me like she was seeing me for the first time.
Good. She should be afraid.
She'd spent three years treating me like a decorative vase—pretty, silent, and easy to ignore.
She forgot that vases can shatter into blades.
She stumbled out without another word, her assistant practically carrying her.
I watched her go and felt nothing but clarity.
This wasn't anger anymore.
This was strategy.
The penthouse door slammed open at seven AM.
Catherine Cole—Alexander's mother—stormed in wearing her signature Chanel suit and a face full of manufactured outrage. Her personal assistant scurried behind her like a frightened mouse.
"Do you have any idea what you've done? That sculpture was a PR centerpiece! The media is going insane! You've embarrassed the entire Cole family!"
I was calmly applying my lipstick in the mirror.
"Embarrassed? A centerpiece that smells like another woman's body spray—how is that my problem?"
"You—" Catherine sputtered. "You're just jealous! A proper wife should be understanding! Do you think great men don't have... needs?"
I capped my lipstick and turned slowly.
"Needs?"
I pulled up the video of Rebecca flaunting my choker and held it three inches from Catherine's face.
"This is what you call 'needs'? Taking the custom piece your son swore was mine alone—a piece that was photographed at our wedding and published in Vogue—and letting his secretary carve her name on it like a dog marking a fire hydrant?"
Catherine's face twitched, but she recovered fast, lifting her chin.
"She's just a secretary. You're his wife. Why lower yourself? Men get bored. Alexander will tire of her in a month and throw her out. If you can't handle that, you were never fit to be a Cole."
"Handle it?" I repeated.
I took one step toward her, then another. Catherine backed up until her calves hit the sofa.
"Three years ago, when Cole Industries was six months from bankruptcy, who came to me begging for help? Who cried in my living room saying 'Vivian, please, you're the only one smart enough to save us'?"
Catherine's face went white.
"That was—that was different—"
"Was it?" I kept advancing. "You promised me respect. You promised me Alexander would treat me as his equal. You said I'd be the queen of this family."
I leaned in close enough to smell her fear.
"And now you want me to smile while your son parades his whore around wearing my jewelry?"
"Don't you dare call her—"
"Get out."
My voice dropped to ice.
"And tell your son that the sculpture was just the beginning. If that choker isn't back in my safe—cleaned, repaired, and delivered on his knees—by tomorrow night..."
I smiled.
"I'll start shredding things that can't be glued back together. Like contracts. Like reputations. Like his entire net worth."
Catherine stared at me like she was seeing me for the first time.
Good. She should be afraid.
She'd spent three years treating me like a decorative vase—pretty, silent, and easy to ignore.
She forgot that vases can shatter into blades.
She stumbled out without another word, her assistant practically carrying her.
I watched her go and felt nothing but clarity.
This wasn't anger anymore.
This was strategy.