For weeks afterward, she had dreamed of him — the brush of his fingers, the scent of his cologne, the sound of his low chuckle when she stammered through her words. She had written his name on the corners of her sketchbook, waiting for the day when he would look at her again and see her — really see her.
Imagine her delight when her father, Jonas Neville, announced that he had made an arrangement — his eldest daughter would marry Charles Duvall. Her heart had soared. She had stood before her mirror that night, brushing her hair and whispering his name under her breath. Charles. My Charles.
But the goddess had a cruel sense of humor.
Because when Charles came to visit, when he stepped into their hall to meet his future bride, his gaze had slid right past her and landed on Ingrid.
Ingrid, her perfect, porcelain sister. Ingrid, who'd always gotten what she wanted without even trying was Charles' mate.
Vivienne could still remember the sound of her own heart breaking.
Within a week, their engagement was announced. Within a month, they were married in the grand cathedral.
Vivienne had stood there in a pale gown of her own, smiling through gritted teeth, her hands raw from clenching her bouquet. She'd watched Charles kiss her sister under the white canopy and had imagined, just for a second, her own hands around Ingrid's fragile neck.
To ease the sting of gossip — her father had hastily married her off to Charles's distant cousin, a penniless Duvall with little more than a title. Her new husband had taken her body but not her heart, leaving her hollow.
And through it all, Charles had never looked at her again.
Ingrid had been dead for nineteen years now. Smothered. It had been so easy, really. A pillow pressed just long enough. The crying baby in the cradle had covered everything.
Vivienne had expected freedom. She had expected Charles to finally turn toward her, to see that she had been the one all along. The one who understood him. The one who had loved him.
But Charles still didn't see her. Not even after Ingrid was gone.
Now, she watched history repeat itself.
Someone was trying to take Delilah's place.
"No," she whispered. "Not again. Not this time."
She inhaled deeply before stepping into the Duvall home.
Just as she reached for the banister —her phone rang.
She fished the phone out of her purse and glanced at the screen. Claudia Blackwood.
"Hello, Claudia," she purred.
"Hi," came the familiar voice. "My son won't be letting me come over to see Mr. Duvall tonight. We don't know how bad the storm will be this time. I just wanted to apologise for the misunderstanding earlier today."
Vivienne's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she moved toward the large arched window, watching the storm clouds gather over the estate's gardens. Lightning flashed, illuminating her reflection — elegant, poised, and deadly calm. "I hope the said girl is being adequately punished for that little stunt," she said coolly.
"It was really a misunderstanding," Claudia replied. "She's Brianna Hart's daughter. She meant no harm. My maid is to blame."
"Brianna?" she repeated softly, the name tasting strange on her tongue — sweet and sour all at once. "Bri? She used to babysit Eric, didn't she?"
"Yes…" Claudia confirmed hesitantly.
"Oh, I see," Vivienne murmured. And indeed, she did see — with the clarity of lightning splitting the dark.
Her mind flickered back to that night — that night — nineteen years ago. The chaos, the whispered accusations, the look in Ingrid's eyes just before it was all over. For years, there had been a single moment she could never quite explain.
Could it be… that the child…
No. Impossible.
And yet—
Her fingers tightened around her phone. "Interesting," she said softly, masking the tremor that ran through her.
On the other end, Claudia continued talking — about sending her love to Charles — but Vivienne barely heard her. Her mind was racing now, connecting fragments, memories, whispers long buried. The girl.
Ingrid.
She could almost see her sister's face superimposed over that girl's.
"I'll see you soon," Claudia's voice broke through the fog of Vivienne's thoughts.
Vivienne blinked, grounding herself again. "Of course," she said.
When she ended the call, she lowered the phone slowly.
The butler approached her.
"Mr. Duvall has gone to bed, Mrs. Thorne," the butler said, bowing slightly as he took her coat.
"And my niece?"
"In her bedroom, ma'am. Retired for the night."
"Of course," she murmured, glancing up the sweeping staircase. "I just need to take a look at something before I leave."
The butler, used to her unpredictable visits, simply inclined his head. "Of course, ma'am."
Her heels clicked softly as she moved down the hallway toward the parlour. She stood for a moment at the threshold, her hand resting lightly on the doorframe.
Then she looked at the massive portrait dominating the wall above the fireplace. Ingrid.
Vivienne stepped closer, her breath shallow. The painting captured her sister in her prime — delicate, smiling, radiant.
Vivienne stared up at the portrait, every emotion that she had buried for nineteen years crawling its way back to the surface — jealousy, grief, rage, longing.
Her fingers brushed over the carved edge of the frame. "You always did know how to steal the spotlight, didn't you?" she whispered.
She studied the face again, trying to make sense of the chaos in her mind. The more she looked, the less she saw that girl from earlier. Sera. It was maddening.
"No…" she murmured, shaking her head. "I'm imagining things."
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was her guilt, catching up after all these years. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.
And then—
"Vivienne?"
The voice startled her, aged but still commanding.
She turned sharply, her heart leaping. Charles stood near the doorway in his robe, his white hair slightly tousled.
"Charles," she breathed, recovering her composure. "You frightened me."
But then she saw it — the way the light fell across his features, the shape of his cheekbones, the line of his mouth — and suddenly, everything clicked into place.