Victor didn't answer immediately; he looked at her for a long moment, as though he were searching for the woman he'd known twenty five years ago. He couldn't find her.
His gaze dropped to the folder between them, then back to her "You expect me to believe that?"
Vivienne shrugged lightly, "I don't particularly care what you believe."
A humourless smile crossed his face "That's never been true."
"No?"
"You've spent half your life making sure I believed exactly what you wanted."
She tilted her head "And what was that?"
"That you took my daughter from me."
For the first time, something flickered across her face. Not guilt, Something closer to disbelief: "You really think that's what this was about?"
Victor didn't respond. She let out a quiet breath and looked out the window "After all these years, you still don't understand."
His patience began to wear thin "Then help me understand."
She turned back, "I lost my son."
"I know."
"No."
Her voice remained calm, "You know he died, you don't know what I lost, you Mountebank."
Victor's jaw tightened "You think you're the only parent who buried a child?"
"I think we're very different kinds of parents."
Victor looked at her for several seconds "You should be careful."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's advice."
A faint smile touched her lips "You've always confused the two."
He stood, picked up the folder, and flipped through it again without really seeing the pages.
"So if you didn't kill Alera..."
He closed it, "...why let me believe you did?"
Vivienne watched him "Because you never asked."
"I just did."
"No."
She shook her head "You asked me today."
Another pause, "You never asked twelve years ago."
Victor frowned, "What are you talking about?"
"You walked into my office three days after her funeral."
"I remember."
"You didn't ask me if I did it."
She held his eyes "You told me I did."
Victor opened his mouth, stopped, "You'd already decided."
"So I let you."
Silence "You needed someone to hate."
Her voice softened not with kindness, but with certainty, "And I needed you looking in the wrong direction."
Victor's eyes lifted slowly, "...The wrong direction?"
Vivienne said nothing for the first time that afternoon, she had his full attention.
Victor broke the silence, "You've avoided the question twice."
Vivienne didn't look up from her tea "I noticed."
"So answer it, women."
She took another sip before setting the cup down "You still want to know whether I killed Alera."
Victor's face remained unreadable "I've wanted to know for twenty years."
"And if I say no?"
"I don't believe you."
"I know."
He laughed quietly, "There it is."
"What?"
"The honesty I almost missed."
She folded her hands "I've never lied to you about that."
Victor looked at her sharply "You expect me to believe that?"
"No."
She met his eyes "I expect you to do exactly what you've always done."
"And what's that?"
"Believe the version that hurts the least."
His jaw tightened "The version that hurts the least?"
"Yes."
She didn't raise her voice "It's easier to hate me than admit you never found who killed your daughter."
The words landed harder than she intended or perhaps exactly as she intended.
Victor stood, he walked to the window, staring out at the river, when he finally spoke, his voice was lower "My daughter came home in a coffin."
"I know."
"I buried her."
"I know."
"You buried your son."
"I did."
Victor turned back, "So don't tell me we understand each other."
"We don't."
Her answer came immediately, "My son died because of a choice you made."
She held his gaze "Your daughter died because of a truth you never uncovered."
Victor's expression darkened "You've spent years saying that."
"And you've spent years refusing to ask why."
"I don't need to."
"You do."
"No."
His voice hardened, "I know exactly who took my daughter from me."
Vivienne watched him for a long moment, then she asked quietly, "Do you?"
The question lingered not because it was loud, but because Victor couldn't answer it immediately for the first time in years. A thought he had buried long ago forced its way back to the surface.
No doubt, something worse, the possibility that he had never actually known.
Alaric dropped his keys onto the kitchen island. The penthouse greeted him with silence.
He shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie and reached for the crystal decanter on the counter.
Two fingers of whiskey, nothing more. The television was already on.
He hadn't bothered turning it off that morning.
"...Mayor Victor Montclair's re-election luncheon drew business leaders, foreign investors and members of the city council..."
He walked past it without interest; politics had never entertained him. He picked up the remote, meaning to switch it off.
Then the screen changed. The reporter smiled brightly "We're here with the city's most talked-about couple—Sebastian Virement and Elara Montclair."
Alaric stopped, "...Of course you are."
He sat down immediately.
On screen, Sebastian looked exactly as he always did, in a tailored suit. Perfect posture.
The kind of smile people trusted simply because it had been practised long enough.
Elara stood beside him, beautiful, composed, unreadable.
The reporter turned to Sebastian "Everyone's asking the same question. When's the wedding?"
Sebastian laughed, "I was hoping someone would ask me something original."
The reporter laughed with him, "I'll take that as soon?"
"We're both busy people."
"A politician's daughter and a businessman."
"Exactly."
The microphone shifted toward Elara "And what do you think?"
She smiled, "I'm sure you'll know when everyone else does."
The reporter mistook it for charm.
Sebastian mistook it for confidence.
Alaric let out a short laugh, watching them together on the TV.
Only he recognised it for what it really was.
Elara wore a smile when she wanted a conversation to end.
He took a sip of whiskey "You do make a beautiful couple",, Alaric said jokingly.
Alaric looked at the screen for another few seconds. Then he muttered, "You've got to be kidding me."
He rewound the interview, not to Sebastian, but to Elara again.
The smile appeared Lasted three seconds, and disappeared the instant the camera moved away "There you are."
He leaned back "You can't even fake it for a minute."
He should've been pleased. Instead something unfamiliar settled in his chest.
Sebastian reached for Elara's hand as they walked away from the reporters.
She didn't look at him. She didn't smile, but she let him take it.
Alaric's grip tightened around the whiskey glass the crystal creaked softly beneath his fingers "...Seriously?"
His jaw tightened "Don't hold his hand."
The words left his mouth before he could stop them he stared at the television for a long beat.
As if she could hear him, he switched off the television. The screen went black.
Then a dry smile crossed his face "Pathetic."
Many hours passed.
The Montclair estate was asleep or at least it pretended to be.
By midnight, the lights in the west wing had gone out one by one. The last of the staff had retired, leaving the house wrapped in the kind of silence money could afford.
Elara brushed her hair in front of the mirror before switching off the lamp beside her bed.
Across the hall, she heard Julian's bedroom door close.
Another ordinary day, Another ordinary night.
She had barely pulled the blanket over herself when A door shut downstairs, not loudly.
Just enough to make her open her eyes. She checked the time. 12:17.
Probably Dad, she thought. He often worked late.
She closed her eyes again. Then came voices too low to understand.
She frowned. The study. She sat up to hear,
A few seconds later, someone knocked twice on her door.
Not urgently, just twice. She opened it.
Julian stood there barefoot, wearing an old black T-shirt "You awake?"
She nodded "You hearing this?"
For a moment, neither of them spoke they just listened.
"...I'm asking you a question."
Their mother's voice. Calm.
Victor answered.
Neither of them caught the words.
Julian frowned "That's..."
He stopped "Weird."
Elara nodded Their parents disagreed sometimes Everyone did but never behind closed doors
Never late at night never like this.
The voices grew louder Not shouting Just Sharper.
Like two people who had stopped choosing their words carefully.
Julian leaned against the railing overlooking the foyer "You think we should..."
"I don't know."
Another pause.
Then "I asked you something, Victor."
Silence, long enough to make Elara uncomfortable.
Then her father's voice low, measured.
The same voice he used during press conferences, only colder: "I don't owe you an explanation."
Julian looked at her "That's not about politics."
"No."
"It isn't."
Then came something neither of them expected.
Their mother laughed Once Short Broken "You still think this is about explaining."
Another silence. Then Something hit the floor, not thrown, dropped.
Glass rolled across marble downstairs. Neither of them moved.
Celeste spoke again, quieter now, so quiet they almost missed it.
"I've stood beside you for twenty six years..."
Silence Real silence the kind that makes a house feel empty
Julian swallowed.
Then Victor raised his voice, not loud, just enough, "Enough."
One word. That was all.
But it froze both of them where they stood because Victor Montclair never lost control.
Never.