Chapter 233

A serene quiet settled over the room as Vivian Hartley retrieved her laptop from the leather satchel. The glow of the screen illuminated her focused expression as she reopened the screenplay file.

Only three scenes remained unfinished in this collaboration project. She flexed her fingers, ready to tackle the final revisions.

The sharp rap at the door shattered her concentration.

"Mrs. Blackwood? It's prepared," came Gwendolyn Pierce's crisp voice through the oak door.

"Enter," Vivian commanded, pushing the laptop aside with deliberate care.

The door swung open to reveal the housekeeper balancing an ornate silver tray. Gwendolyn moved with calculated grace, placing the meal on the side table with surgical precision.

"I prepared these specially for you, Mrs. Blackwood," she murmured, retreating two steps to allow inspection.

The tiger prawns glowed like jewels under the chandelier's light, their citrusy aroma mingling with hints of garlic and chili. Vivian selected one, the crisp shell giving way to succulent flesh that melted on her tongue.

"Acceptable," Vivian acknowledged with a dismissive wave. "You may leave. I'll return the tray later."

Gwendolyn dipped her head. "As you wish, Mrs. Blackwood."

As she turned toward the exit, her gaze snagged on the open laptop screen. A predatory gleam flashed in her eyes as she discreetly retrieved her phone from her apron pocket.

One silent click later, the screenplay's contents were captured. The corners of her mouth twitched upward as she ghosted from the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Across town in the penthouse of Seabreeze Villa, Serena Whitmore sat coiled like a viper on her Italian leather sofa. Her manicured nails shredded the velvet upholstery as waves of fury radiated from her rigid form.

Everything had been flawless. Maxwell Sterling's predictable actions had provided the perfect alibi. The raging storm, the frayed ropes - every detail meticulously planned.

Yet somehow, Vivian Hartley kept cheating death.

The crash of shattering porcelain barely registered as Miranda Graves barked orders at the trembling staff. The marble floor glittered dangerously with the remnants of Serena's earlier tantrum.

Then her phone vibrated.

Serena snatched the device, her scowl deepening until she saw the message contents. Her breath hitched. The screenplay she'd commissioned - the one that was supposed to be her comeback vehicle - was actually Vivian's work?

Back on set two days later, Vivian found herself drawn to the familiar chaos of production despite doctor's orders. During the lunch hiatus, an unexpected figure materialized through the craft services tents.

Julian Montclair cut through the crowd effortlessly in his tailored white athletic wear, the sunlight catching the subtle silver threads woven through the fabric. His artfully disheveled hair and easy smile made him look like he'd stepped straight out of a coming-of-age romance.

The whispers began instantly among the crew. Vivian's fingers tightened around her script pages as he approached, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. Whatever game he was playing now, she'd be ready.