Chapter 196

Vivian's fingers tightened around her linen napkin as Maxwell's lips curved into that infuriatingly knowing smile. "Ms. Hartley," he murmured, "are you perhaps laboring under some...misconception about me? Or do you suspect those unfortunate incidents in Emberglow County were part of some elaborate rescue operation I staged?"

The crystal stemware caught the ambient light as Vivian took a deliberate sip of water. "Mr. Sterling," she countered smoothly, "you're imagining things. As a married woman, my actions carry consequences beyond personal whims."

Though every instinct screamed Maxwell had orchestrated those attacks, proof remained elusive. Accusations without evidence would only entangle her further in his web.

The arrival of their courses provided temporary respite. Maxwell, ever the picture of aristocratic grace, selected several desserts for her with theatrical care. "Let's not spoil such exquisite cuisine with unpleasantness," he suggested, his smile as polished as the silverware.

Vivian's attention drifted to the dessert presentation - a soufflé sculpted into an intricate magnolia blossom, its petals dusted with gold leaf and drizzled with lavender-infused honey. The first bite released a burst of blackberry compote, its tartness perfectly offsetting the vanilla bean richness.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Crestwood glittered like a spilled jewelry box. The city's meteoric rise owed much to the Blackwood dynasty, with Adrian's influence woven through every gleaming skyscraper.

Her breath caught mid-sip when the glass reflected a familiar silhouette. Adrian emerged from a private dining room, his arm occupied by a willowy figure in ivory silk. Though the wide-brimmed hat and Venetian mask obscured her features, the way Serena Whitmore clung to Adrian's sleeve - that childish, possessive grip - was unmistakable.

Adrian didn't shake her off. His expression held that same indulgent resignation Vivian remembered from their university days, when Serena's theatrics commanded center stage.

She turned back to her plate too quickly, rattling the silverware. Too late. Maxwell's gaze had followed hers, his eyes now brimming with performative sympathy.

"Why persist with this charade of strength?" he murmured, reaching across the table. "We were nearly married once, Vivian. Doesn't our reunion after all these years feel...fated?"

Vivian recoiled so violently her chair screeched against the marble. The disturbance earned disapproving glances from nearby diners, which Maxwell acknowledged with an apologetic smile. "Forgive us," he announced smoothly, "my fiancée's rather temperamental tonight."

The lie hung between them like poisoned mist. Vivian's pulse hammered against her ribs - not from heartbreak, but rage. That Adrian's indiscretion should play out before Maxwell Sterling of all people...

Her untouched soufflé collapsed in on itself, the delicate structure ruined. Like her carefully constructed composure. Like the fragile détente in her marriage.

Maxwell's fingers brushed hers again, insistent as a creditor's reminder. "Let me take care of you," he whispered, and the threat beneath the promise sent ice down her spine.