Chapter 2: The Silent Transaction

The same face. The same practiced, demanding weight.

But as Adrian’s hands moved over her, a bone-chilling cold swept through Vivian’s veins, followed by a violent wave of visceral nausea.

The physical contrast was a slap in the face. The phantom who had shared her bed for the past two weeks possessed a desperate, almost reverent hunger; this man, her actual husband, possessed only the clumsy, entitled urgency of a master reclaiming his property.

It really isn't him. The realization tore the final, bleeding remnants of her heart to shreds.

Adrian was entirely blind to her horror, fueled by a sudden, toxic surge of possessiveness. His heavy hand wandered beneath her knit skirt, while his other palm slid up her slender waist, mapping the curve of her ribs until it reached her chest.

The moment his fingers brushed the fabric covering her breast, his movements stiffened abruptly.

The sudden hesitation lasted only a heartbeat before Adrian’s grip turned brutal. With a rough, impatient shove, he pinned Vivian face-down onto the leather sofa. In a display of utter humiliation, he yanked her skirt open from behind.

Vivian’s face was pressed against the cold leather, her mind flashing back to a night two weeks ago under the dim, filtered moonlight. That other man had wanted her fiercely, yet when he reached her chest, he had paused.

He had pressed his lips to her mastectomy scar with a devotion that felt almost sacred, making her tremble with an intensity she couldn't explain. He had treated her brokenness like poetry.

Adrian treated it like an eyesore.

Click.

The sharp, metallic bite of a belt buckle being undone echoed in the quiet room. Vivian’s scalp crawled with tension.

She gripped the edge of the sofa, her knuckles turning stark white as bitterness and disgust warred within her. She needed a way out. She needed to stop this violation without breaking her mask.

Suddenly, a sharp, piercing ringtone shattered the silence.

Adrian froze, his hand still clamping her waist down like a vice. Growling in frustration, he reached into his pocket and answered the call.

A high-pitched, coquettish female voice bled through the speaker, slicing through the tension of the room. "Adrian, babe! I made a special heart-shaped lunch for you. Why aren't you in the office yet? I'm waiting~"

Tiffany Rose. The college student. The mistress.

Hearing that clear, youthful voice hit Vivian’s chest like a sledgehammer. For a second, her soul felt entirely detached from her body. But as the bitterness crystallized into pure, unadulterated venom, she forced her emotions to level out.

Slowly, Vivian turned her head, looking up at Adrian with calculated, bedroom eyes, a mocking smile playing on her lips. "Honey..." she purred, her voice dripping with mock-submissiveness. "Don't stop."

"Adrian? Is someone there?" Tiffany’s voice instantly turned into a sharp, displeased tantrum on the other end. "Are you at home? You promised me today!"

Adrian’s face darkened. He abruptly stood up, stepping away from the sofa and casually fastening his belt. "I understand. I'll see you in a bit."

He hung up without a shred of shame, turning back to Vivian. With the arrogance of a king granting a small favor to a peasant, he reached out and affectionately ruffled her disheveled hair.

"An emergency came up at the firm, Viv. Let’s wait until tonight."

The moment the heavy front door clicked shut behind him, Vivian’s composure shattered. She covered her mouth, dry-heaving uncontrollably as hot, bitter tears finally spilled over her lashes.

She felt dirty. Tainted in a way that years of cancer treatments had never made her feel.

Clutching the blue insurance folder to her chest, she sprinted into the bathroom. She stripped off her clothes, throwing them directly into the trash can, and scrubbed her skin with disinfectant soap over and over until her flesh was raw, red, and stinging.

Only when the burning sensation eclipsed the memory of Adrian's touch did she turn on the shower, letting the scalding water cascade over her from head to toe.

Slowly, the tears stopped. Her breathing evened out.

Vivian’s small, trembling hand slid down to rest flat against her lower belly. She had taken ovulation-inducing medication, carefully calculating her cycle specifically for today. She had no family left in this cold world. If heaven could grant her a child, it would be her anchor—her reason to start over.

But a child required a future. And she would ensure that future was built on the ashes of Adrian’s empire.

If you are heartless, Adrian, I will be ruthless.

After drying off, she changed into a loose, comfortable lounge set and pulled the divorce agreement from the hidden pocket of the folder.

The sections for asset division and spousal compensation were completely blank. When the time came, she would fill in the numbers herself, and she would make him sign it voluntarily.

Years ago, when Adrian was a broke, ambitious graduate, she had given him her father's tech patents for free to serve as his startup capital. He had knelt in the dirt, weeping, swearing an oath that no matter how massive Cross Industries became, half of the original shares would always belong to her.

Today, his net worth was estimated in the hundreds of millions, and he hadn't mentioned that promise in years.

Since I built you up, Adrian, I will be the one to tear you down.

By evening, Vivian had wiped down the kitchen and was heading upstairs to sleep. She knew Adrian wouldn't be back; her little stunt over the phone would ensure he spent the night placating his furious mistress.

Suddenly, the mechanical chime of the electronic front lock echoed through the quiet house.

Vivian’s heart skipped a beat, leaping into her throat. Was he back? The stranger?

She clutched the hem of her cotton nightgown, her breath hitching as the door swung open. A tall, imposing figure stepped into the foyer.

The amber chandelier cast a warm, golden glow across Vivian’s bare shoulders, illuminating the delicate bows of her nightgown. Against the soft light, her skin looked like translucent porcelain, her ash-brown hair falling in soft, obedient waves down her back.

A strange, dark flicker of emotion danced in the man's eyes as he looked up and caught sight of her.

For a terrifying, breathless second, Vivian couldn't tell which man stood before her. She froze on the stairs.

The man slowly slid off his heavy wool coat, holding it out toward her in the air. "Come here," he commanded, his tone sharp and impatient. "What are you dazing off for?"

The tight knot in Vivian’s chest unraveled, leaving behind a dull, familiar ache.

It’s Adrian.

The other man—the shadow—never used that arrogant, commanding tone. He never demanded she hang his coat or bring him slippers like a servant.

Keeping her eyes lowered, Vivian walked down the stairs, quietly taking the coat and placing his slippers by his feet.

Adrian frowned slightly, clearly unaccustomed to her lack of a warm, doting welcome. But remembering their encounter from the afternoon, a smug, knowing smirk touched his lips.

As she set the slippers down, his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and pinning her roughly against the foyer wall.

"Are you punishing me, Vivian?" Adrian murmured, his head tilting down.

"Since I promised we'd have a child, I won't go back on my word."

As he spoke, he reached up with his free hand to loosen his collar. His breath washed over her face—a nauseating cocktail of high-end alcohol and the cloying, sweet scent of Tiffany’s perfume.

Vivian’s stomach rolled. She could perfectly picture it: before driving home to play the dutiful husband, his mouth had been pressed fervently against another woman’s body. The wound in her heart ripped open a little wider, dripping with fresh blood.

Just as she prepared to forcefully shove him away, the doorbell rang, chiming repeatedly through the house.

"Who the hell is at this hour?" Adrian snapped, his irritation flaring.

Vivian seized the opportunity to slip under his arm, pulling the front door open. A delivery man stood on the porch, holding an obscenely massive bouquet of midnight-blue roses.

"Ms. Hale?" the courier asked.

"Yes, I'm Vivian Hale."

The man thrust the heavy arrangement into her arms. "Your husband, Mr. Cross, sent these. He said he has urgent business tonight and won't be able to make it home, so he ordered these flowers to wish you sweet dreams." With a polite nod, the courier turned and walked back to his van.

Vivian let out a silent, triumphant breath.

She turned around, clutching the vibrant blue roses, and looked at Adrian. His expression had turned completely bizarre—a grotesque mixture of shock, confusion, and budding rage.

Vivian offered him a faint, entirely innocent smile. "Honey... did you prepare another surprise for me?"

She knew, with absolute certainty, that Adrian hadn't sent them. Adrian only bought red roses, and only through his secretary on their anniversary. Blue roses were the signature of the phantom. The substitute had sent them, entirely unaware that the real Adrian had decided to come home.

The timing was poetic justice.

Feigning a look of pure, starry-eyed joy, Vivian plucked the handwritten card nestled among the petals. Her voice was honeyed and flirtatious as she read the elegant script aloud:

“Last night, you were like a blue rose blooming in the dark, entangling me until I was entirely lost in you.”

The color drained from Adrian's face, turning him a sickly, ashen grey.

He violently snatched the card from her fingers. The moment his eyes locked onto the handwriting, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth threatened to shatter. He recognized the script. It was the handwriting of the man he had hired.

Vivian acted completely oblivious, tilting her head in naive confusion. "Honey? Did you order these before your plans got canceled? Why do you look so strange?"

A stiff, horrified smile forced its way onto Adrian's lips. "Yes... yes. I forgot I ordered them. The system must have experienced a delay."

It was a pathetic, transparent lie. Vivian hid her dark amusement behind a delicate hand, her amber-gold eyes flashing with lethal mockery.

"Oh, I see!" she laughed softly, her voice light as a feather. "For a second there, I almost thought I had two husbands."

The words hit Adrian like a physical blow. He choked on his own breath, looking as though he might literally spit blood in the foyer. Looking down at the highly suggestive card in his hand, he suddenly felt the heavy, suffocating weight of a brilliant, neon-green crown of betrayal settling firmly on his head.