Chapter 99

Vivian gave in with visible reluctance, throwing one last uncertain glance at the thinning crowd before ducking her head and trailing after Margaret.

The gala was dying down, and the chances of Dominic showing up now seemed slimmer by the minute.

Just as the chauffeur pulled the gleaming Bentley to the curb outside Harbor Grand Hotel, Vivian and Damien emerged. Damien swept open the car door with theatrical grace. "My enchanting muse," he purred, "would you grant me the pleasure of dining at the new sky lounge? You've barely touched your food tonight, and I must make amends for my negligence."

Vivian stood firm. "Damien," she began bluntly, "you know my situation. Adrian and I are still legally married, and I'm just establishing my foothold in this industry. My career comes first. In this age of relentless media scrutiny, even innocent interactions get twisted beyond recognition. A single snapshot could birth a thousand tabloid fantasies. Professional distance protects us both and preserves the integrity of our current project."

Damien's smile held a tinge of melancholy. "I deeply admire you and genuinely hoped for friendship. But you've articulated the complications perfectly. Perhaps when you've reached the zenith of stardom, such rumors will cease to matter—"

"Then I'll personally invite you to that sky lounge," Vivian finished smoothly. "We'll watch snowflakes dance under moonlight while discussing screenwriting and our shared love of literature."

"That day will come," Damien affirmed with conviction.

After exchanging final pleasantries, Damien offered to see her home.

Vivian declined, waving her phone. "I'll just call a cab," she stated firmly.

Across the bustling avenue, Natasha—who'd grown restless accompanying her parents shopping during her mother's endless wardrobe trials—had slipped away for a smoothie. Spotting Vivian with a distinguished silver-haired gentleman near the ostentatious Bentley, she froze.

Though she couldn't make out his face clearly, the car alone screamed old money and influence.

Natasha burned to confront them, but the relentless traffic formed an impassable barrier.

By the time the crosswalk signal turned green, Vivian, the mystery man, and the luxury vehicle had dissolved into the night—leaving only unanswered questions.

Fuming, Natasha hurled her drink onto the pavement, the plastic cup exploding in a sticky burst.

"Natasha! What's gotten into you?" Richard's voice cut through her rage as he approached, his expression torn between concern and indulgence.

Natasha glared at the river of honking cars. "I just saw Vivian with some Rolls-Royce-driving silver fox," she spat, venom dripping from each word.

Richard's brow furrowed. "Could it have been Adrian? Maybe they've reconciled after all."

After Vivian's terse phone call, Richard had discreetly checked court records. Finding no divorce filings, he'd assumed her separation talk was just another tantrum—one that would inevitably blow over.

Natasha scoffed. "Please! That wasn't Adrian. Couldn't see his face clearly, but the guy had ridiculous platinum hair. Definitely not your precious son-in-law."