Vivian POV
The penthouse suite overlooked the city with floor-to-ceiling windows and marble floors—everything money could buy.
Everything that should have been mine.
I stood at the window with a glass of wine in my hand—red, expensive, the same color as the rage burning through my veins.
My phone buzzed on the glass coffee table. I walked over and picked it up.
A message from the private investigator: Found something. Call me.
I hit dial, and he answered on the first ring.
"Ms. Monroe." His voice was gravelly.
"What did you find?" I took another sip of wine.
"Your sister's been busy these past three years." Papers rustled on his end. "Started from the bottom in London. Waitressing while pregnant."
"I know all that." I moved back to the window. "Tell me something I don't know."
"She had the baby—a boy, born three years ago in London. Name's Noah Alexander Monroe."
My hand tightened on the wine glass. "You're sure it's Damien's?"
