Chapter 8 - The Velvet Cage
|
The east guest suite smelled of expensive lavender and cold ambition.
Marin stood in the center of the room, looking at the ivory dress hanging in the closet. It was beautiful, flawless, and utterly terrifying. She grabbed a heavy canvas bag from the laundry cart and began throwing Vivien’s things inside.
She didn't fold the silk blouses. She didn't carefully arrange the designer shoes. She shoved them in with a violent, trembling energy, exorcising the fear that had paralyzed her for weeks.
As she reached into the vanity drawer, her fingers brushed against a small, velvet box.
Marin pulled it out. Inside was a diamond necklace, glittering under the chandelier light. But tucked beneath the velvet padding was something else. A small, folded piece of paper.
Curiosity overcame protocol. Marin unfolded it.
It was a printed schedule. Not a wedding itinerary, but a list of dates and times. Beside each date were initials. D.V. I.V.
Dominic Virelli. Isabella Virelli.
Beside Isabella's initials on a date two months from now, someone had written a single word: Hospice.
Marin’s blood ran cold. Vivien wasn't just planning to silence Isabella; she was planning to remove her completely. To institutionalize her, declaring her unfit, effectively isolating Dominic from the only person who kept his humanity tethered to reality.
The bedroom door clicked open.
Marin spun around, shoving the paper into her apron pocket.
Vivien stood in the doorway.
She didn't look like the panicked woman who had whispered Dominic’s name into the phone. She looked composed, dangerous, and entirely too calm.
“You’re packing my things,” Vivien observed, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.
“Mr. Virelli ordered it,” Marin said, keeping her voice steady, her hands gripping the edge of the vanity.
“Did he?” Vivien smiled, a slow, predatory curving of her lips. “Dominic is impulsive. He heard a fraction of a conversation and reacted. But he will calm down. He needs my father’s ports. He knows he cannot wage war on my family without losing his own empire.”
She walked toward Marin, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood.
“You think you’ve won, little mouse. You think because he sent his dogs to pick up your bastard child that you are safe.”
May you like
Marin didn't flinch at the insult to Eli. She felt the paper in her pocket, the proof of Vivien's true intentions.
“I don't think I've won,” Marin said quietly. “I think you’ve lost.”
