Chapter 2 No.2

The morning sun was a liar. It shone through the curtains, bright and cheerful, pretending that the world had not ended the night before.

Vivian stood in front of Julian, her hands deft as she tied his tie. It was a Windsor knot. Perfect. Symmetrical. Just like their marriage appeared to be.

"You look handsome," she said. The lie tasted like ash on her tongue.

Julian checked his watch. "I'll be late tonight. Business dinner at The Obsidian Club. Don't wait up."

The Obsidian Club. It was a members-only establishment, exclusive, dark, and notoriously discreet.

"Of course," Vivian said, smoothing his lapel. "Good luck with the... business."

He kissed her cheek. It was a dry, perfunctory peck. "You're a good wife, Vivian."

He left.

As soon as the front door clicked shut, Vivian's smile vanished. She walked to the kitchen island and opened her laptop. She didn't log into her social media. She logged into the bank account Julian thought she didn't have access to-the secondary joint account he used for "incidentals."

There it was. A reservation at The Obsidian Club.

VIP Booth 4. Two guests.

Vivian closed the laptop. Her hands were trembling, but not from fear. From rage. A cold, calculating rage. But she couldn't let it show. Not yet. If she confronted him now, he would spin it. He would call her paranoid. He would cut her off before she had enough to bury him.

She went upstairs and changed. She didn't put on the pastel dresses Julian liked. She chose an nondescript black dress, something that would blend into the shadows. She put on her heels, but she packed a pair of flats in her purse.

She drove to the club. She didn't use the valet. She parked down the street, pulling her coat tight around her.

She walked in through the side entrance, slipping a hundred-dollar bill to the hostess she had befriended months ago during a charity event.

"Just looking for my husband," Vivian whispered, feigning a tremor in her voice. "I want to surprise him."

The hostess nodded sympathetically and pointed toward the VIP section. "Booth 4, Mrs. Kensington."

Vivian didn't go to the booth. She went to the mezzanine that overlooked the semi-private booths below. The lighting was dim, the shadows deep.

She stood in the shadows, looking down.

And there he was.

Julian was sitting on a velvet sofa. But he wasn't in a meeting.

Next to him sat a girl. She looked young, painfully young. She had long blonde hair that cascaded down her back. She was wearing a red dress that was little more than a slip of fabric.

Scarlett Sharp.

Vivian recognized her from the society pages. The ambitious daughter of the Sharp empire, a family known for their ruthless climbing.

Julian's arm was draped over the back of the sofa, his fingers toying with the ends of Scarlett's hair. His friends-men Vivian had hosted at dinner parties, men who had eaten her food and drunk her wine-were sitting around them, laughing.

"So this is the new muse, Julian?" one of them jeered. "What about the wife?"

Julian laughed. It was a cruel sound. "Vivian? She's home knitting or whatever she does. Scarlett there... Scarlett is alive."

Scarlett giggled and leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Oh, Julian, you're terrible."

Vivian felt a physical blow to her chest. It wasn't heartbreak. It was the shock of pure disrespect.

She gripped the railing. The metal dug into her palms. She took a deep breath.

She pulled out her phone. Her hands shook, but she steadied it against the velvet curtain.

Record.

She captured it all. The hand on the thigh. The kiss on the neck. The mockery. Every pixel was a nail in his coffin.

"I'm not a stray! Julian, tell her!" Scarlett squealed at something one of the men said, though Vivian couldn't hear the context.

"This is Scarlett," Julian announced, his voice carrying up to the mezzanine. "She's Garrett Sharp's daughter. She's... like a little sister to me. I'm just looking out for her."

"A sister you sleep with?" Mark laughed.

Julian didn't deny it. He just smirked and took a sip of his drink.

Vivian stopped the recording. It was enough. It was more than enough.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to run down there and tear them apart. But she was Vivian Kensington. The "good wife." The "weak wife."

She turned on her heel and walked away. She didn't make a sound. She slipped out the side door, past the sympathetic hostess, and into the cool night air.

She got into her car. The silence was deafening. She didn't start the engine immediately. She just sat there, her forehead resting against the steering wheel.

A sob escaped her throat. Just one. Then another. She let herself cry for exactly five minutes. She checked her watch. Five minutes was all he got.

She wiped her face, checked her makeup in the rearview mirror, and started the car.

When Julian came home three hours later, Vivian was in bed, pretending to be asleep. She listened to him brush his teeth, listened to him hum a tune he had heard at the club.

He had no idea. He thought she was safe in her ignorance. He thought he was the hunter.

He was wrong.