Chapter 4 - Ultrasound and Ultimatums
The next afternoon, the trap was sprung from an unexpected flank.
I had stepped out of the Manhattan branch of my family’s private trust bank and was walking along Madison Avenue when a high-pitched, melodic voice sliced through the autumn air.
"Vivian! What a coincidence!"
I turned. Cassidy Vaughn was stepping out of a black town car, holding two shopping bags from an ultra-exclusive baby boutique on 72nd Street. She was dressed in an ivory cashmere coat that was deliberately unbuttoned, revealing a form-fitting emerald dress that accentuated the slight, deliberate swelling of her lower stomach.
Behind her, two photographers from a prominent society blog lingered, snapping telephoto shots from behind a lamppost.
She had tipped them off. This wasn't a coincidence; it was an ambush.
"Cassidy," I said calmly, stopping on the sidewalk. "You’re far outside your corporate communications jurisdiction."
"Oh, I’m just taking some personal time," Cassidy said, walking toward me with a triumphant, feline sway. She stopped three feet away, close enough that I could smell her sweet, cloying gardenia perfume. "When you're carrying the future heir to a hedge fund dynasty, the father tends to insist on the very best nurseries."
She pulled an item from one of the bags—a tiny, cashmere baby blanket embroidered with the initials *A.V.*—Alexander Vance.
"Preston picked the name last night," Cassidy whispered, her voice dropping so the photographers wouldn't catch the audio, though her face maintained a radiant, camera-ready smile. "He said Alexander means 'defender of men.' He wanted a name that represented strength, not weakness. Not... decay."
I didn't blink. I didn't glance at the blanket. I looked straight into her heavily contoured hazel eyes.
"Preston has had five years to name children with me, Cassidy," I said, my voice level and icy. "He didn't, because he knew his bloodline wasn't the one carrying the value in our household."
Cassidy let out a sharp, mocking titter. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetie. Have you seen the papers today? Preston is the face of Wall Street. You're just the freak he hides in the attic. Did you get the gala invitation? Or did you throw it in the trash where it belongs?"
She stepped closer, leaning in until her breath touched my ear.
"I picked the dress code, Vivian. Personally. I spent three weeks convincing the board that 'Backless Elegance' was the ultimate aesthetic statement. I did it because I wanted everyone to see what Preston has had to endure for five miserable years. Or better yet, so you’d be too terrified to come at all. If you show up, you'll be laughed out of Manhattan. If you stay home, everyone will know you've already lost."
I looked down at her. She was pretty in the way mass-produced porcelain was pretty—flawless, hollow, and exceptionally fragile under pressure.
"Cassidy," I said softly, stepping into her space until she was forced to lean back. "You think you're playing chess, but you haven't realized that the board you're standing on belongs to me."
"What is that supposed to mean?" she sneered, though a tiny flicker of unease crossed her eyes.
"It means that a woman who builds her future on another woman's stolen foundation should never look down," I replied calmly. "Because when the floor falls out, the drop is infinite. Enjoy the nursery shopping. Be sure to keep the receipts."
I walked past her, my pace steady, never glancing back.
Behind me, I heard Cassidy hiss, "We'll see how proud you are tomorrow night, freak!"
I reached the corner of 68th Street, where Gideon’s black Maybach was idling at the curb. The tinted rear window slid down two inches.
"Get in," Gideon’s voice commanded.
I opened the heavy door and slipped into the leather interior. Gideon was sitting in the corner, a laptop resting on his knees. He looked over at me, his eyes sweeping across my face, cataloging the tension in my jaw.
"Did she give you what we needed?" he asked.
"She confirmed on camera that she drafted the gala mandate with discriminatory intent," I said, tapping the microphone pinned beneath my lapel. "And she publicly acknowledged Preston’s paternity of her child before the corporate disclosures were filed with the SEC. It’s an ethics violation that breaches Vance Capital’s morality clause with the state pension funds."
Gideon closed his laptop with a sharp snap.
May you like
"Sebastian is finished with the dress," he said, his gaze holding mine with a heat that made the hair on my arms stand up. "It’s time to show this city what happens when you strike a match near gasoline."
***
