Through the window under the warm light of the restaurant, she could see Preston sitting at a booth. Tiffany Blake was across from him, laughing at something he said. Preston reached across the table and fed her a bite of cheesecake from his fork. And then his hand moved down to Tiffany's stomach.
He rubbed it gently, tenderly. The way a man touches a woman who is carrying his child. Tiffany was pregnant, too. Vivien stood in the rain, seven months pregnant, alone, watching her husband cradle another woman's belly in the same restaurant where he had proposed to her three years ago, down on one knee between the dessert case and the hostess stand, telling her she was the only woman he would ever want.
He had never touched Vivien's belly. Not once in seven months she had asked him to feel the baby kick. He said he was busy. She had placed his hand on her stomach while he was half asleep.
He pulled it away and rolled over, but there he was, rubbing Tiffany Blake's stomach like it contained the second coming. Vivien called Gloria. Her voice was barely a whisper. Grandma, she is pregnant.
Tiffany is pregnant. There was a silence so thick Vivien could hear the clock ticking on Gloria's kitchen wall a thousand miles away. Lord have mercy. How far along? three months maybe.
He was rubbing her belly. Grandma, he has never once touched mine. Not once. Gloria's voice when it came was made of iron wrapped in velvet.
Vivien Marie Sinclair, you listen to me. You are going to that gala. You are going to burn his castle to the ground. And then you are coming home to me.
And we are going to raise that grandbaby of mine with so much love. She will never know what it feels like to be cold. Do you hear me? Yes, ma'am.
And baby, wear the blue dress, the one with the diamonds. Let him see what a real queen looks like. The night before the gala, Preston came home drunk at midnight. Vivien was in bed, propped up on pillows because sleeping on her back had become impossible.
She was reading a baby name book. She had circled Eleanor. Preston stood in the doorway and looked at her. The disgust on his face was so naked, so unfiltered that Vivien flinched as if he had raised his hand.
"God, Vivien, you look like a whale. I cannot even look at you anymore."
"I am carrying your daughter, Preston."
"Are you sure it is mine? Let us be honest, Vivien. I have not touched you in months. Who knows what you do when I am working?" The accusation was so cruel, so perfectly inverted that it took her breath away.
The man who spent every Tuesday with his mistress was accusing his faithful pregnant wife of cheating. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, loosening his shoes, and said it. The thing she had been dreading. After the baby is born, we need to talk about the future.
I have been thinking. I want a different life. The company is going through changes. I might need to restructure things at home, too.
He was telling her he was going to leave her after the baby, after she had served her purpose as an incubator. Where would I go, Preston? Vivien asked, keeping her voice small. I have nothing.
You control everything, Preston smirked. His teeth gleamed in the dark. Exactly. So maybe try being a little more grateful.
He fell asleep in four minutes. Vivien lay awake until dawn, her hand on her belly, feeling her daughter kick against her palm. She whispered into the darkness, "Tomorrow, sweetheart. Tomorrow, mommy stops pretending." The morning of the gala, Vivien woke at 6 to three phone calls.
That nearly destroyed everything. The first came from Benedict. Madam, we have a problem. A board member, I will not name him yet until security confirms, has leaked information to a financial journalist at the Wall Street Journal.
They know the Aurora Group owner will be revealed tonight. If the story breaks before you control the narrative, Preston could see it, panic, and flee the country or destroy evidence. The second call came from Ruth. Viv, I just ran into Tiffany Blake at the nail salon on Main Street.
She was loud. She was bragging to two friends. She said Preston is filing for divorce Monday morning.
His lawyer told him, "You get nothing because you have no income. They think you are destitute, Viv. They are going to try to take the house."
The third call came from Vivien's attorney. Mrs. Carter, I need to inform you that a $500,000 home equity loan was taken out against your Greenwich residence yesterday. The signature on the application is yours, but we have confirmed through handwriting analysis that it is a forgery.
Your husband forged your signature to secure funds. Our sources indicate the money was used as a down payment on a condominium in Stamford. The deed is in Tiffany Blake's name. Three catastrophes in 45 minutes.
The media leak threatened her carefully orchestrated reveal. The divorce filing meant Preston's lawyer was already building a case to strip her of assets they did not know she had. And the forged signature was a federal crime that if discovered through normal channels could unravel her cover before she was ready. Vivien sat on the edge of the bed.
Preston was in the shower singing, actually singing some pop song about living your best life. She could hear him through the bathroom door, happy and confident, preparing for his big night at the gala, completely unaware that the woman sitting 15 ft away from him owned the water he was showering in. She called Benedict back, kill the leak. I do not care how.
Pay the journalist for an exclusive postgala interview, whatever it takes. But that story does not run until I am on that stage. Done, Benedict replied. And the forged signature added to Henderson's file, page four.