Chapter 237

Vivian adjusted herself in the leather seat, her lips curling into a mocking smile. "You loathed this shade when I picked it out. Haven't touched it in months. Did my colleagues' compliments suddenly make it fashionable?"

Adrian gave her that infuriatingly condescending look. "You're the one who insisted on discretion. This was the most practical choice."

Her retort died as she turned to Ethan. "It's still too flashy. Bring that rust bucket of yours next time."

Ethan's jaw tightened. "Of course, Mrs. Blackwood."

His prized car—a year's salary saved meticulously—was worth seven figures.

And now both his boss and wife called it scrap metal. First Dominic, now Vivian.

Poor Ethan.

As his fingers brushed the ignition, his phone vibrated violently.

"Mr. Blackwood," he announced, "it's the precinct."

Vivian's hands clenched, knuckles bleaching white. "Did they—is it Maxwell?"

Adrian's palm covered hers, radiating steady warmth. "Let's hear what they say first," he murmured, nodding at Ethan to answer.

That simple contact anchored her, a lifeline in churning waters.

Ethan's "Thank you, we appreciate the update" sounded strained.

The call ended. His face darkened. "Maxwell escaped—"

A weighted pause. Then, directly to Vivian: "Natasha...he assaulted her. She's in emergency care now."

——

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and despair.

Natasha lay motionless, an oxygen mask obscuring half her battered face.

Purpling bruises distorted her features beyond recognition. One arm, encased in plaster, rested at an unnatural angle.

If one looked closely, they might notice the faint tremor of her lashes. Or how her uninjured hand fisted the starch-stiff sheets.

She'd been awake for hours. Avoiding the police. Avoiding reality.

Maxwell hadn't come alone.

The past days blurred into a waking nightmare—strange hands, leering faces, pain layered upon humiliation.

To survive, she'd swallowed her screams. Played compliant. Let them parade her degradation like a trophy.

Now?

She was broken merchandise. No respectable family would want damaged goods. Not even as a mistress.

Her nails bit into her palms, drawing crescent moons of blood.

The hatred burned brighter than the pain.