Chapter 10: Vivian’s Turn
Marcus's bail was revoked within the hour.
The recording was everything the FBI needed—a full confession to murder, money laundering, fraud, and conspiracy. Combined with the video evidence from the flash drive and the frozen financial records, the case was airtight.
He wasn't getting out. Not this time. Not ever.
But Vivian was still talking. Still scheming.
From county lockup, she'd managed to reach a tabloid journalist—feeding them a carefully crafted story that painted her as Marcus's victim too. That she'd been coerced. Threatened. That she'd never willingly participated in anything.
The public was eating it up.
**"VIVIAN LANGFORD SPEAKS: 'I Was Terrified of Him'"**
**"Marcus's Mistress Claims She Was Forced Into Criminal Conspiracy"**
I read the article in Dante's kitchen, coffee in hand, and felt my blood simmer.
She'd always been good at this—playing the victim. In my last life, she'd cried her way into Marcus's arms by claiming I bullied her. She'd sobbed to our parents that I was cruel to her. She'd wept at my father's funeral while secretly celebrating that his company—and everything in his will—would soon be hers through Marcus.
"She's requesting a meeting with you," Dante said, sliding into the seat across from me.
I looked up. "Vivian wants to see me?"
"Through her lawyer. Claims she has information that could help your case—in exchange for reduced sentencing."
I laughed. I actually laughed. "She wants to trade information she stole from me for a shorter sentence?"
Dante's expression was unreadable. "You don't have to go."
"Oh, I'm going." I set down my coffee. "But not because she has anything I need. I'm going because I want her to see my face when she realizes no one's coming to save her."
The meeting was arranged for the next day. Sterile room, bolted table, fluorescent lighting that made everyone look half-dead. Vivian was already there when I arrived—orange jumpsuit, no makeup, her hair limp and unwashed.
She looked up when I entered, and for a split second, I saw it—genuine fear.
Good.
"Sera." Her voice was thin, reedy. Nothing like the confident purr she used at galas. "Thank you for coming."
I sat down, crossed my legs, and said nothing.
She fidgeted. Picked at her nails. Then: "I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But I need you to understand—Marcus forced me into everything. He threatened me. He said if I didn't cooperate, he'd hurt my family—"
"You don't have family, Vivian." My voice was flat. "Your mother died when you were three. Your father remarried my mother. You have me. And you tried to have me killed."
Her mask cracked. Just for a second.
"That's—that's not true. I never wanted you dead. The champagne—it was all Marcus's idea. I begged him not to—"
"Lies." I pulled out my phone, hit play on a recording. Vivian's voice filled the room—crisp, clear, unmistakable:
*"Make sure the dosage is high enough. I don't want her lingering. One drink and done."*
She'd said it on a call with Marcus's fixer. Three weeks before my death in the other timeline. Dante's team had pulled it from the seized phone records.
Vivian's face went white as paper.
"Where did you—"
"Doesn't matter." I tucked my phone away. "Here's what's going to happen, Vivian. You're going to plead guilty. You're going to stop feeding stories to the press. And you're going to spend the next twenty years thinking about what you did."
"You can't—" Her voice rose, panicked. "You can't do this! I'll tell them everything. I'll tell them about Corsetti—about how you two planned this together—"
"Go ahead." I stood, smoothing my dress. "Tell them. Tell the judge that Dante Corsetti's dead brother's murder was caught on video. Tell them about the shell companies with your signature on them. Tell them about the champagne you spiked." I smiled. "See how far that gets you."
I turned and walked to the door.
Behind me, I heard it—the sound of Vivian breaking. A raw, ugly sob.
"Sera, please. Please. I'm your sister."
I paused, hand on the doorknob.
"No," I said quietly. "You never were."
I left her there, crying in that sterile room under those terrible lights.
And I didn't look back.
---
The recording was everything the FBI needed—a full confession to murder, money laundering, fraud, and conspiracy. Combined with the video evidence from the flash drive and the frozen financial records, the case was airtight.
He wasn't getting out. Not this time. Not ever.
But Vivian was still talking. Still scheming.
From county lockup, she'd managed to reach a tabloid journalist—feeding them a carefully crafted story that painted her as Marcus's victim too. That she'd been coerced. Threatened. That she'd never willingly participated in anything.
The public was eating it up.
**"VIVIAN LANGFORD SPEAKS: 'I Was Terrified of Him'"**
**"Marcus's Mistress Claims She Was Forced Into Criminal Conspiracy"**
I read the article in Dante's kitchen, coffee in hand, and felt my blood simmer.
She'd always been good at this—playing the victim. In my last life, she'd cried her way into Marcus's arms by claiming I bullied her. She'd sobbed to our parents that I was cruel to her. She'd wept at my father's funeral while secretly celebrating that his company—and everything in his will—would soon be hers through Marcus.
"She's requesting a meeting with you," Dante said, sliding into the seat across from me.
I looked up. "Vivian wants to see me?"
"Through her lawyer. Claims she has information that could help your case—in exchange for reduced sentencing."
I laughed. I actually laughed. "She wants to trade information she stole from me for a shorter sentence?"
Dante's expression was unreadable. "You don't have to go."
"Oh, I'm going." I set down my coffee. "But not because she has anything I need. I'm going because I want her to see my face when she realizes no one's coming to save her."
The meeting was arranged for the next day. Sterile room, bolted table, fluorescent lighting that made everyone look half-dead. Vivian was already there when I arrived—orange jumpsuit, no makeup, her hair limp and unwashed.
She looked up when I entered, and for a split second, I saw it—genuine fear.
Good.
"Sera." Her voice was thin, reedy. Nothing like the confident purr she used at galas. "Thank you for coming."
I sat down, crossed my legs, and said nothing.
She fidgeted. Picked at her nails. Then: "I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But I need you to understand—Marcus forced me into everything. He threatened me. He said if I didn't cooperate, he'd hurt my family—"
"You don't have family, Vivian." My voice was flat. "Your mother died when you were three. Your father remarried my mother. You have me. And you tried to have me killed."
Her mask cracked. Just for a second.
"That's—that's not true. I never wanted you dead. The champagne—it was all Marcus's idea. I begged him not to—"
"Lies." I pulled out my phone, hit play on a recording. Vivian's voice filled the room—crisp, clear, unmistakable:
*"Make sure the dosage is high enough. I don't want her lingering. One drink and done."*
She'd said it on a call with Marcus's fixer. Three weeks before my death in the other timeline. Dante's team had pulled it from the seized phone records.
Vivian's face went white as paper.
"Where did you—"
"Doesn't matter." I tucked my phone away. "Here's what's going to happen, Vivian. You're going to plead guilty. You're going to stop feeding stories to the press. And you're going to spend the next twenty years thinking about what you did."
"You can't—" Her voice rose, panicked. "You can't do this! I'll tell them everything. I'll tell them about Corsetti—about how you two planned this together—"
"Go ahead." I stood, smoothing my dress. "Tell them. Tell the judge that Dante Corsetti's dead brother's murder was caught on video. Tell them about the shell companies with your signature on them. Tell them about the champagne you spiked." I smiled. "See how far that gets you."
I turned and walked to the door.
Behind me, I heard it—the sound of Vivian breaking. A raw, ugly sob.
"Sera, please. Please. I'm your sister."
I paused, hand on the doorknob.
"No," I said quietly. "You never were."
I left her there, crying in that sterile room under those terrible lights.
And I didn't look back.
---