Chapter 3: The Ghost in the Elevator

"I’m here now, Vivian. You don't need pity gifts from a delayed automated system. I’ll throw them in the incinerator for you."

Adrian reached out, his large hand snapping toward the midnight-blue roses.

But Vivian fluidly leaned away, cradling the heavy bouquet against her chest and denying his grasp. Looking at her husband’s face—which was currently contorting into a bruised shade of mottled crimson and purple from suppressed fury—she felt a toxic cocktail of dark amusement and profound tragedy.

"Throw them away? How could I?" Vivian murmured, burying her nose into the cool, fragrant petals, feigning a shy, blissful blush. "My husband rarely has such a romantic streak. These blooms are rare, Adrian. I’m going to find the finest crystal vase for them. I want them to stay alive for as long as possible."

Watching her hold the arrangement with the tender reverence of a woman deeply in love, Adrian felt as though he were violently choking on his own bile. The air in his lungs turned to poison. He crumpled the handwritten card in his fist into a tight, tight ball and hurled it viciously into the trash can.

Did they actually do it? The thought screamed in his head. Did that bastard actually touch her?

He marched over to the Italian leather sofa, throwing himself onto it and forcing his voice to adopt a casual, conversational drawl. "Vivian... do you remember what we did on White Valentine's Day?"

Vivian’s fingers, which were gently adjusting a blue stem, faltered for a fraction of a millisecond.

March 14th. Half a month ago. It was the anniversary of her parents’ tragic deaths, and she had been entirely drowned in grief. She had gotten uncharacteristically drunk, thrown a weeping fit, and called Adrian's private line repeatedly, begging him to come home. Near midnight, "Adrian" had finally walked through the door.

He had gifted her a stunning diamond bracelet, and the way he had looked at her was surging with an untamed, possessive hunger. That was the night she had willingly surrendered her virginity.

It was also, she now realized, the very first night the substitute had taken her husband's place.

A devastating sense of irony sliced through her soul. She hadn't expected Adrian to bring up his own cuckoldry. Suppressing the tremor in her hands, she turned around, tilting her head with a look of feigned, playful indignation. "Honey, that was the night our marriage finally became real. How could I ever forget?"

Adrian bolted upright, his muscles locking. "Real?"

Seeing his expression—a chaotic war of feral rage and forced aristocratic restraint—Vivian felt a thrill of cold satisfaction. She blinked her large amber-gold eyes innocently. "Yes. You’ve been so distant since the wedding, but that night, you finally held me in your arms. Have you forgotten your own passion, Adrian?"

The billionaire’s polished facade shattered completely. "I... of course I remember. And your birthday, a few days ago... I held you all night then, too. Right?"

Ah, Vivian thought, her mind calculating instantly. So my birthday was the second time.

Adrian certainly kept a meticulous schedule of his own humiliation.

She walked over to the coffee table, carefully setting the crystal vase down before gliding toward him. She offered him a smile of captivating, lethal charm. "Honey, if you only ever held me while we slept, I’d really start to worry that my powerful husband was impotent."

As expected!

The realization hit Adrian like a physical blow. Those two had gone all the way behind his back.

Adrian clenched his fists so fiercely his knuckles turned a ghostly, bloodless white. His rage had reached an absolute boiling point. He had explicitly commanded the man—you are a placeholder. You do not touch her.

Vivian leaned in close, her light, floral scent invading his senses. Her small hand reached out, lazily toying with his silk tie, winding the expensive fabric around her delicate fingers. "You were so frustrated that night," she whispered, her voice a sultry, mocking purr. "But you were worried about my comfort because my cycle was starting, so you forced yourself to take a freezing shower instead. Remember?"

The constant emotional seesaw was driving Adrian toward a total psychological breakdown.

With a guttural burst of anger, he violently yanked her into his arms, pulling her down onto his lap. All traces of his gentle, refined mask vanished, replaced by a crude, frantic haste as he began tearing at the buttons of her lounge set. He had to see. He had to know right now if another man’s marks were stamped onto his wife’s ivory skin.

Vivian didn't fight. She merely rubbed against him, her body soft and compliant, acting as the perfect accelerant to his fire. Just as his lust and panic reached a fever pitch, she suddenly pressed her small palms flat against his chest, her bottom lip trembling with a look of profound grievance.

"Honey... how can you not even remember my cycle?" She sighed, pushing herself back. "It looks like you'll have to take another cold shower tonight, my love. Don't worry. Once my period is over, we can go right back to how things were. I'll do whatever you want."

With a fluid, hypnotic sway of her hips, she stood up and walked calmly up the stairs.

She left him entirely alone in the dim living room, trapped in a swirling, agonizing vortex of doubt.

Adrian’s chest felt as though it were about to detonate. He tried to endure the suffocating humiliation, but his ego cracked. Pulling out his encrypted phone, he fired a message to a highly classified number:

Did you sleep with Vivian Hale?

He waited. One minute. Two minutes. The silence stretched like a executioner's noose. Finally, a single, detached symbol lit up his screen.

?

Adrian furiously typed out a volley of legal and personal threats, demanding a definitive answer. But as his thumb hovered over the send button, a cold sweat broke out on his neck. He hesitated.

He and Silas Vance were identical twins. When they were toddlers, Silas had been diagnosed with severe bipolar disorder. Fearing a mental health scandal would tarnish the prestigious Cross legacy, their tyrannical father had kept Silas hidden away in a private estate, entirely unregistered in the national census. To the global elite, Adrian Cross was an only child.

Later, after their parents' bitter divorce, Silas had taken his mother’s maiden name and vanished overseas.

He had only recently returned, and Adrian’s private investigators had unearthed a terrifying profile: Silas Vance moved fluidly through both the highest echelons of international tech and the blood-soaked criminal underworld. He was ruthless, morose, highly volatile, yet possessed a genius-level IQ. The dark wealth Silas had accumulated in Europe surpassed the valuation of the Cross Group itself.

Their father was desperate to use Silas’s underworld liquidity to take Cross Industries to the next level, and he had explicitly warned Adrian: Do not anger your brother. Accommodate his every whim.

Asking Silas for a casual favor to play his double for a few weeks had seemed like an easy fix to free up time for Tiffany. But pushing Silas now? That was a dangerous gamble.

Suppressing his violent urge, Adrian deleted the paragraph letter by letter, rewriting it with a layer of forced fraternal subservience:

Sorry, brother. I care about Vivian too much and let my paranoia get the best of me. You don't need to play my substitute for a while. I’ve wrapped up the current project, so I’ll handle her myself.

By the way, when is your flight back overseas? Make sure Vivian never catches a glimpse of you before you leave. It would ruin my marriage.

He sent the messages in rapid succession. But like stones dropped into a bottomless ocean, they received no reply.

When Vivian woke up the next morning, the space beside her was cold. Adrian was already gone, his discarded luxury suit sitting in the laundry basket.

Adrian despised having staff intrude on his privacy, so after their wedding, he had systematically dismissed the maids and cooks. For three long years, the cooking, scrubbing, and laundry had fallen entirely on Vivian’s shoulders. He had grown accustomed to her servitude, taking it as his aristocratic birthright.

Looking at the empty room now, she realized he had never wanted a wife. He wanted a free, high-society maid who doubled as a shield for his public image.

Vivian walked over to the laundry basket, hooking the collar of his expensive dress shirt with one finger. As she lifted it, the fabric dragged his trousers up, and a small object rolled out of the pocket, clattering onto the hardwood floor.

It was a vibrant, colorful hair tie adorned with a youthful, glittering pendant.

It was loud. It was cheap. It was exactly the kind of trendy accessory a twenty-year-old college student like Tiffany Rose would wear.

Vivian’s movements froze. A brief, phantom flicker of loneliness crossed her amber-gold eyes, but her face remained deadpan, a mask of absolute ice. The pain couldn't touch her anymore.

After washing the clothes and meticulously making the bed, she marched into the massive walk-in closet. She had rarely accompanied Adrian to high-society galas, so the space was mostly filled with understated, casual pieces. Silently, she kept only what she needed for the current season. Everything else—years of memories, gifts, and garments—she packed ruthlessly into heavy industrial bags, scheduling a pickup for a clothing recycling charity.

Just as she zipped the final bag, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. An unknown international number.

She answered, her voice smooth and professional. It was the talent acquisition director from the elite overseas research firm she had applied to. They were highly intrigued by her chemical patents and were inviting her to a final screening interview at their Capital City corporate branch today. If she passed, she would be fast-tracked to their European headquarters.

Perfect, Vivian thought. If she was going to leave this marriage, she would disappear to a different continent. Adrian Cross would never see her face again.

By afternoon, she had changed into a tailored, charcoal-grey skirt suit, applied a layer of sharp, minimalist makeup, and arrived at the gleaming skyscraper in the heart of Capital City.

After checking in at the high-security reception desk, she walked toward the executive elevators, holding her portfolio tightly.

The silver doors slowly slid open.

As Vivian stepped forward, her gaze caught a figure standing inside, and her breath instantly trapped itself in her throat.

The man was standing coldly in the far corner of the elevator cab, clad in a devastatingly sharp, bespoke midnight-blue suit. A pair of delicate, gold-rimmed glasses rested on his aristocratic nose, partially obscuring his sharp brows. One hand was casually shoved into his trouser pocket.

He radiated a suffocating, lethal aura—a profound, lonely chill that warned the rest of the world to stay a thousand feet away.

With just a single glance, Vivian’s heart hammered against her ribs. The posture. The energy. The suffocating weight of his presence.

This wasn't Adrian. This was the shadow. This was the substitute.

As the elevator doors began to close, the man slowly tilted his head up. Vivian immediately ripped her gaze away, lowering her head as if she were a total stranger. She stepped into the car, pressing the button for her interview floor, and instantly began scrolling intently through her phone, her fingers trembling slightly against the glass screen.

The elevator began its smooth, quiet ascent.

And then, she felt it. A burning, predatory gaze—one so scorching and intense it felt as though it could literally melt the crown of her head—slowly, deliberately settled upon her.