Chapter 5

My days in the foreign rehabilitation center stretched on, calm and uneventful, as I settled into the long road of recovery.

The new kidney was doing its job, a small miracle of modern medicine stitching me back together after death had nearly claimed me.

Mason kept in touch, sending me encrypted emails on a regular basis. Besides updating me on the Sinclair family's remaining assets, he'd always slip in some news about Alaric, almost as an afterthought.

I never asked, but Mason knew studying rivals had been my profession for years. Even when that rival had once been my husband.

According to Mason, in the first month after my "death," Alaric tried to keep everything running as usual, but it was clear things were starting to fall apart.

At an important business dinner, he waited for me—or rather, for Mrs. Goodwin—to have everything set up for him: his perfectly pressed suit, the right cufflinks, and a guest list with all the details about who to watch out for and what to avoid.

But Vivian was too busy picking out flashy jewelry for herself. When he asked her about the details, she didn't have a clue about anything, and she almost picked out a tie for him that would have made him look just like his biggest rival.

Alaric was distracted at the dinner, missing out on several important potential partners.

To make matters worse, Vivian tried to play the perfect wife, but while chatting with a society lady, she accidentally let slip details about a secret project Goodwin Group was working on, which stirred up a whole mess he didn't need.

For the first time, Alaric publicly gave Vivian the cold shoulder.

When he got home, he found his study drowning in a sea of paperwork. There was no one to remind him about important personal matters—like birthday gifts for family members or coordinating charity donations—and everything was a tangled mess.

Frustrated, he actually grabbed his phone to call me before catching himself. In the end, he just pressed his fingers to his temples, exhaustion weighing him down like a physical thing.

Funny how the small things he'd once brushed off as annoyances had become gaping holes in his life.

I'd been like a single, unremarkable screw in the machinery of his world—until I was gone, and everything started grinding to a halt.

Now he couldn't sleep.

And when he did, his dreams were full of fractured glimpses—me reading under lamplight, steam curling from a pot of hangover soup in the kitchen, or worst of all: me in that hospital bed, staring at him with hollow, unreadable eyes.

He chalked it up to stress.

But that hollow ache inside him only grew deeper.

It was obvious that Vivian had noticed the change in Alaric too.

She threw herself into copying me.

According to one of Mason's sources, a servant who'd worked for the Goodwin family for years, Vivian started tidying up the study, giving coffee-making a shot, and even awkwardly trying to pick out ties for him.

But imitation could only go so far.

She had no idea that Alaric liked his coffee brewed at a precise temperature, or that he insisted on a particular brand of ink. She didn't realize that even those random-looking decorations all followed his own habits and preferences.

Her so-called efforts only made things worse, grating on his nerves more than ever.

The final straw came when she "organized" his files and mixed up a crucial contract. Alaric's patience snapped. "Enough! Who told you to touch my things?"

Vivian's eyes welled up instantly. "Alaric, I was just trying to help... I know I'm not as good as Jocelyn, but I'm learning."

Her usual act—playing the wounded, teary-eyed victim, dragging my name in to paint herself as the earnest underdog.

In the past, this had always worked like a charm.

Alaric would soften up immediately and comfort her.

But this time, as Alaric looked at her tear-stained face, for the first time, he didn't move to comfort her.

He just stared at her with a cold, distant look—there was a clear irritation in his eyes, one he didn't even realize was there.

"Get out," he said, his voice ice-cold.

Vivian stared at him, utterly stunned.

"Did you not hear me? Get out!" Alaric snapped, his tone even harsher.

Vivian ran out, sobbing.

Alaric was left alone in the study.

Alaric was left alone, surrounded by the mess she'd made—the haphazard files, the cheap decorations she'd bought to mimic my taste, all of it clashing violently with the room. That restless frustration inside him burned hotter.

He didn't understand why the woman he'd once treasured above everything now felt foreign and almost cheap.

Frustrated, he yanked off his tie and walked over to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a large glass of whiskey.

But even the alcohol couldn't quiet that strange restlessness churning inside him.

Before he could stop himself, he was comparing us.

The way we handled things. The way we carried ourselves. Even... how we reacted to his anger.

Then he found I never broke down in tears like that.

I was steady—steady when I accepted things, steady when I fixed problems, steady even when... I looked at him.

That calm used to strike him as cold and boring.

Now? It felt like a mirror, reflecting every ugly, cruel part of him back in his face.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

He downed a large gulp of whiskey, trying to chase away these thoughts he had no business entertaining.

Alaric told himself I was already dead and all he had now was Vivian.

He needed to cherish her. That was how it should be. That was how it had to be.