Chapter 86

Lydia, as her manager, had to find out sooner or later.

With an exasperated sigh, Lydia gave her a skeptical look. "Right, and I suppose you're also secretly royalty?"

Vivian hesitated for a split second. Technically, she was Vivian Hartley. Determined to settle this, she pulled up the copyright agreement on her phone and shoved it toward Lydia. "See for yourself."

Lydia took the device with obvious doubt, but her eyes widened as she scanned the document.

She looked up, stunned. "You're actually Vivian Hartley?"

Vivian nodded firmly. "Yes."

"Why keep it a secret? And why bother auditioning for Blazing Horizon like some newcomer?" Lydia's composure cracked completely.

Vivian had every advantage, yet she'd let Serena humiliate her?

Vivian remembered storming out of the house that day with no plan, just raw determination—and somehow, that had led her straight to Lydia.

She exhaled. "At first, I needed to prove I could make it on my own merit. No shortcuts."

Lydia rubbed her temples. "Well, it's not too late to pivot."

A sudden thought made Lydia rummage through her bag. She produced a cream-colored envelope. "This came for you."

Vivian took it, frowning. "Who sent it?"

"No clue. It was left at reception with strict orders to hand it directly to you. The courier vanished before I could ask questions." Lydia's frown deepened, as if mentally retracing steps that led nowhere.

Vivian slid a finger under the flap. Inside lay an ivory card, its surface embossed with a single elegant word: Invitation. The kind that reeked of obligation masked as privilege.

Her phone buzzed before she could open it. Damien Vaughn's name flashed on the screen, his impatient voice crackling through. "Where are you? We're waiting."

"On my way," she muttered, tucking the envelope away—then tossing it into the nearest bin without a second glance. These things found her like clockwork every year, each more tedious than the last.

She didn't bother wondering how they'd tracked her to the office. In this world, privacy was a myth.

Truth was, she loathed these events. Adrian, her husband, treated invitations like hot potatoes, dumping them on her with a dismissive, "Go if you want."

But what was the point? She could script the night's trajectory blindfolded: either endure pitying whispers about her absent husband, or fend off men who saw a lone woman as an open invitation.

Snapping back to the present, Vivian glanced at Lydia. "Let's go. Damien and Sebastian Hartwell are waiting."

Sebastian Hartwell wasn't just another pretty face.