Chapter 134

Adrian's piercing gaze locked onto Vivian, his voice dripping with icy detachment. "I suppose if that scar doesn't fade, you'll keep using it as ammunition against me."

Ah. So that was his concern. Not her pain or recovery - just the potential for old wounds to be reopened. Vivian understood perfectly. The physical mark might disappear, but the emotional damage would linger.

The door swung open with theatrical timing, revealing Gwendolyn balancing an ornate tray with a steaming bowl. Her saccharine smile was as artificial as the garnishes floating in the consommé.

"Mrs. Blackwood, I prepared some nourishing broth for you."

Gwendolyn had outdone herself with the presentation - edible gold leaf and truffle shavings adorned the surface. Vivian knew this sudden generosity wasn't born of kindness. During her hospital stay, such luxuries would have never left the kitchen staff's quarters. Now, the housekeeper sought to ingratiate herself.

A vibration cut through the tension as Vivian's phone lit up on the bedside table. She barely glanced at it. "Set it there. I'll eat later."

Gwendolyn hesitated before placing the tray down, her beady eyes scanning the room like a security camera. Vivian unlocked her device, intending to transcribe a voice memo. But her fingers betrayed her, and the message played aloud:

"The character arcs need stronger romantic tension in act two. Without proper buildup, the audience won't buy the finale's emotional payoff—" She stabbed at the screen to silence it, but too late.

Adrian's eyebrows arched. "Screenwriting?"

Vivian ignored him, typing a response without sparing him a glance. Meanwhile, Gwendolyn inched toward the exit, fingers slipping into her apron pocket. The subtle click of a speed-dial button was barely audible as she positioned herself just outside the door.

Recognition flickered in Adrian's eyes. "So that's how you accumulated 22 million in your account? Churning out melodramatic scripts?" His tone hovered between curiosity and contempt.

Vivian responded with a noncommittal hum, the sound deliberately dismissive.

The memory of that arrogant producer's voice memo reignited Adrian's irritation. The idea of his wife taking orders from some second-rate production company was intolerable. That a Blackwood would debase herself writing soap operas...

His jaw tightened. "Let me make this clear," he bit out, each word sharp as broken glass. "Have I ever denied you funds? Why degrade yourself writing such trivial nonsense?"

White-hot anger surged through Vivian. How dare he? His corporate machinations were deemed respectable while her creative work was dismissed as trash?

She hurled her phone onto the chaise, her retort razor-sharp. "Every word I write is earned through skill and effort. You may not understand artistry, but you will respect it!"

The medical staff present suddenly found the ceiling fascinating, their discomfort palpable.

Adrian stilled, the room holding its breath. Just as tension reached breaking point, he drawled, "At least it's better than acting. If writing amuses you, by all means continue."

The unspoken challenge hung between them like unsheathed blades.