Chapter 54

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard as Vivian studied the bouquet of crimson roses with guarded curiosity. Though Adrian's sudden display of affection confused her, she instinctively slipped into her well-practiced role of the doting wife. "How thoughtful of you to remember my favorite," she murmured, lifting the blooms to inhale their fragrance.

Her fingers traced the velvety petals as memories surfaced. Two years under Adrian's roof had granted her luxuries the Dawson name never provided. This stark reality made Natasha's mocking gaze unbearable. Performance wasn't merely Vivian's talent—it was her armor in this vipers' nest.

With calculated grace, she crossed to Adrian's side, threading her arm through his with practiced ease. "Thank you, darling," she purred, layering her voice with honeyed sweetness that made her own skin prickle. The unfamiliar endearment visibly startled him; she felt his muscles tense beneath the fine wool of his suit jacket.

Adrian's dark eyes held reluctant admiration for her acting prowess as they flicked toward Natasha. "Was there something else you needed, Miss Dawson? Or do you make a habit of eavesdropping on private conversations?"

Natasha's porcelain complexion flushed crimson. "I merely overheard talk of divorce proceedings, Mr. Blackwood. Naturally, I assumed—"

"A lovers' quarrel," Adrian interrupted with a dismissive wave. His thumb absently stroked Vivian's wrist as he continued, "Though I suppose gossip is more entertaining than academic pursuits. Pity your intellect doesn't match even half your sister's, despite sharing blood."

The verbal dagger found its mark. Natasha's carefully constructed composure shattered as she spun on her heel and fled, designer heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

The moment Natasha disappeared around the hedge, Vivian withdrew her arm as if burned. "Satisfied? Or did you come specifically to witness my humiliation?"

Adrian's brow furrowed. "Must you always assume the worst of me?"

She opened her mouth to retort, then bit back the scathing reply. He had, after all, just publicly defended her.

"There's a family gathering at Blackwood Manor tomorrow," he said after a weighted pause. "When you didn't answer my calls, I came to collect you personally."

A bitter laugh threatened to escape. Of course—now that he needed his contractual wife to maintain appearances, she suddenly warranted his attention. "We're getting divorced, Adrian," she said quietly, turning toward the fountain. "Your family will learn the truth eventually. Our arrangement expired months ago."

The words tasted like ash. Last year's complications—her father's scandal, Adrian's corporate takeover—had delayed the inevitable. Now, facing the hollow pretense of their marriage, Vivian recognized the futility of clinging to smoke and mirrors. The realization settled like a stone in her chest.

Adrian's expression darkened as he recalled Beatrice's distress. "Grandmother saw the news about the fire and this morning's tabloid photos with Serena. She's... concerned. We should reassure her together."

The unspoken plea in his voice gave Vivian pause. For all his ruthlessness in business, Adrian's devotion to his grandmother remained his one softness. She studied his face—the tension around his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw—and found herself nodding despite better judgment.

"One last performance," she agreed, already calculating which dress would best sell the illusion of marital bliss. The irony didn't escape her—their entire relationship had been an elaborate act from the beginning.