Chapter 1

Icy, salty seawater was still wreaking havoc in her lungs. The suffocating pain felt like an invisible hand, choking Vivian's throat with deadly force.

"Breathe!"

Vivian bolted upright on her silk bed, cold sweat drenching her forehead.

She gasped greedily for air, her knuckles turning white as she clawed at the soft duvet.

There was no twisted steel from a car crash, nor the dark abyss of ocean waves.

Instead, the room smelled faintly of Chanel No. 19—mixed with the suffocating scent of sandalwood, her stepmother Eleanor's favorite fragrance.

Instinctively, Vivian reached for her neck. No fatal fractures. Her skin was as smooth as porcelain.

She threw off the covers and stepped barefoot onto the thick Persian rug.

The woman in the mirror was twenty-five, with long, cascade hair framing a timid face that bore the scars of years of neglect. She was wearing a soft, harmless pink lace nightgown.

Three years ago.

This was right before her stepmother stripped her of her mother's inheritance, right before her stepsister stole her fiancé, and right before she was shoved into a watery grave.

Thump.

The bedroom door swung open without warning. Dressed in an exquisite haute couture gown, Eleanor walked in carrying a steaming porcelain bowl, her face adorned with her signature, sickeningly sweet smile.

"Oh, Vivian, darling, bare feet again?" Eleanor's voice dripped with venomous sweetness.

"Tomorrow is Serena and Christian's engagement rehearsal. I know you're upset, but you must understand a man like Christian needs a sweet, obedient wife like Serena. You're simply too stubborn. Your father only wants what's best for you, which is why he decided it's better for Serena to manage the family trust."

The same old trick. Soft words wrapping around gaslighting and theft.

In her past life, Vivian had succumbed to these sweet poisons. Step by step, she had surrendered her mother's Saint-Louis Winery, handed over her board seat at Vance Group, and ended up dead without even a burial.

Vivian stared at her reflection and let out a low, chilling laugh. There was no sorrow in it—only razor-sharp malice.

She turned around and slowly closed the distance between herself and Eleanor. Under her stepmother's bewildered gaze, Vivian reached out and took the bowl—laced with mild sedatives.

The next second—CRASH!

The expensive bone china shattered at Eleanor's feet. Scalding liquid splashed violently across Eleanor's ten-thousand-pound white cashmere hem, leaving a hideous, dark stain.

"You... Vivian! Are you insane?!" Eleanor shrieked, stumbling backward as her fake persona shattered into pieces.

"Why don't you drink your own potion, Eleanor?" Vivian looked down at her, her eyes colder than the eternal snow on the Alps. "Save the loving mother act. Starting today, I'm done being your pushover."

Eleanor's finger trembled as she pointed at her. "How dare you speak to me like that! If your father finds out,"

"My father is a businessman who only cares about value," Vivian cut her off, her tone as casual as discussing the weather.

"Go ahead, run to him. Let's see if he cares more about your ruined dress or the upcoming equity restructuring."

Eleanor turned pale.

For the first time, she saw a bloodthirsty, predatory glint in Vivian's eyes—a look that belonged only to the true rulers of the Vance dynasty.

Grit formulated in Eleanor's mind as she spat, "You'll regret this!" She hitched up her ruined skirt and practically fled the room.

Silence reclaimed the space.

Without a moment's hesitation, Vivian walked over to her vanity and picked up a heavy pair of tailoring shears.

Snip.

Locks of waist-length hair fell ruthlessly to the floor, cutting away the weak, desperate-to-please girl she used to be.

The mirror now reflected a woman with a sharp, dark bob. The meekness was gone, replaced by a lethal, commanding aura.

She yanked open her closet, bypassing the pastel, submissive dresses Eleanor had curated, and pulled out a tailored, forest-green pantsuit.

Vivian walked up to the hidden wall painting in her room. Relying on her memory, she typed in the code she had burned into her soul.

A hidden safe popped open, revealing an original stamped document—a 15% voting share in Vance Group's core mining subsidiary, left to her in secret by her late mother.

In her past life, Eleanor had forged her signature and swapped it for garbage paper.

Vivian slipped the document into her leather tote. She wiped off her soft pink lipstick and applied a strike of unapologetic, ice-cold crimson.

Stepping out into the hallway in her stiletto heels, the servants scattered, staring in shock at the eldest daughter who seemed to have transformed overnight.

Passing her stepsister Serena's room, the door stood ajar. Serena was preening in front of a full-length mirror, wearing an authentic haute couture dress that had originally belonged to Vivian's mother.

Vivian paused, leaning against the doorframe, admiring the sight with a smirk.

"Vivian?" Serena turned around, startled by Vivian's radical new look.

A flash of envy and malice crossed her eyes before she put on a pathetic act. "Oh, gosh, why did you chop off your hair? I know tomorrow is my engagement party with Christian, and I know he chose me... but you don't have to let yourself go like this."

"Let myself go?" Vivian smiled gently.

She stepped closer and delicately adjusted the lace collar on Serena's gown. Her touch was light, yet it sent an instinctive shudder down Serena's spine.

"Serena, this gown was custom-made for my mother in a Paris atelier. Doesn't it feel a bit... tight on you? Like it's suffocating you?"

Serena's face drained of color. "What are you talking about? Father gave it to me!"

"Just a friendly reminder," Vivian whispered against Serena's ear, her voice as smooth and lethal as snake venom.

"Stolen things tend to choke you to death—whether it's a dress, or a man."

Without another glance, Vivian turned and headed downstairs.

Outside, lightning tore through the dark sky, breaking into a torrential downpour.

A black Rolls-Royce waited quietly in the rain outside Vance Manor. Vivian popped open a black umbrella and stepped straight into the storm.

The curtain had risen on her revenge. And her first target was the man waiting to become her brother-in-law—the elite venture capitalist, Christian Reynolds.