Chapter 7

Vivienne's POV

I didn't sleep all night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I could smell the tobacco scent from when he leaned close. Feel the brush of his lips against mine.

I turned over countless times, the sheets already crumpled beneath my grip. As dawn approached, I simply sat up, pulled my knees to my chest, and stared at the graying sky outside the window.

Two soft knocks came at the door.

I straightened my back almost immediately. "Come in."

Nadia entered carrying a tray with hot coffee, toast, and fried eggs.

"Vivienne, eat something." She set down the tray. "Boss wants to see you."

My fingers tightened on the bedsheet.

She said only that, didn't look at me further, didn't show a trace of curiosity.

"Now?"

"Yes."

Of course I could pretend to be sick, could delay, could lock myself in this room and refuse to come out. But that would only make me look more pathetic.

I'd already lost my composure thoroughly enough last night. Hiding today would only make me look like a frightened fool.

"Understood." When I spoke, my voice had already steadied. "You can go."

Nadia nodded and turned to leave.

I got out of bed, washed up, changed clothes. Drank half a cup of coffee, ate nothing, then got up and headed toward the study.

The hallway was very quiet. I paused for two seconds at the door before raising my hand to push it open.

Dmitri sat behind the desk, his black suit impeccably worn, collar buttoned, the shoulder wound clearly re-bandaged—his movements showed almost no trace of last night's blood-soaked dishevelment.

The desktop was covered with maps, dock routes, ledgers, and gang documents. Several photographs of the New York harbor were pressed on top, with route maps marked Manhattan and Brooklyn beside them.

He didn't even look up, just turned a page of documents, his pen tip scratching across the paper.

"Come here," he said.

I walked in, the door closing softly behind me.

I stood before the desk. He continued reading the documents in his hand, didn't speak to me again. As if summoning me here was only to make me stand and wait.

His silence was telling me that last night's ambiguous heat in the study wasn't worth mentioning at all.

My shame and panic were all like a farce that only I had taken seriously.

I spoke first.

"What exactly do you want?"

Dmitri finally looked up, reached for a stack of documents from the desk's edge, and pushed them toward me.

"Take a look."

I lowered my head and picked up the top page.

The first was an asset freeze document. Several bank accounts under the Ashford name, real estate companies, shipping shares—all jointly frozen by the courts and federal investigation departments.

The next page was a board reorganization list. Several familiar surnames had been brutally crossed out, replaced by unfamiliar new names. Further on were newspaper clippings, media reports, equity transfer agreements, black and white photographs.

I turned page after page, my fingertips growing colder.

My father's name was written as the mastermind of embezzlement, smuggling, and murder scandals. My mother became a vicious woman who enabled gang money laundering. The Ashford family's decades-old facade was like a thin sheet of paper, torn open and trampled into the mud.

Several core industries were rapidly dismantled. Moretti's people had swallowed the largest share.

Another page read: Family's eldest daughter Vivienne Ashford, confirmed dead in harbor conflict.

I was already dead in the newspapers.

The Vivienne Ashford that New York knew had already been buried.

"You walk out of here now," Dmitri began, "and in less than twenty-four hours, you'll be found by Moretti's people. Or torn apart by street scum first."

I knew he wasn't exaggerating.

Manhattan had no place for me anymore. The Ashford mansion, the name, the accounts, the drivers, the lawyers, the bodyguards—all gone. Anyone on the street who recognized my face could sell me for a good price. Moretti wanted me dead, wanted to confirm I was truly finished. Those bottom-feeding thugs would be even faster, stripping the last valuable things from me before throwing me into some filthy alley.

I was silent for a long time before pushing down the bitterness in my throat.

"So," I slowly raised my head, "what do you want me to do?"

Dmitri looked at me. "Stay by my side. Help me handle matters related to Ashford."

I let out a cold laugh. "Stay by your side?"

"Yes."

"On what grounds?" I stared at him. "Because you saved me once last night? So I should gratefully work for you?"

His expression didn't change. "Because you have no other choice."

A tightness spread through my chest, my voice growing colder. "Then why should I trust you? Ashford fell so quickly, yet you have even the board lists and accounts prepared so thoroughly. Dmitri, are you really saving me, or just picking up a war trophy that happens to be useful?"

He didn't answer immediately.

After a few seconds, he stood and walked to the window, lifting a corner of the blinds. Outside, the gray-white Brooklyn port district was visible. In the distance, cranes and warehouses stood like cold, hard skeletons. A thin mist lay over the sea surface, faintly obscuring the docked cargo ships.

With his back to me, his voice was low and flat.

"Besides me, no one can keep you alive."

Not comfort, not a promise. A conclusion like a command.

I looked at his back, suddenly wanting to throw the documents in my hand at him. This man was always like this—putting a knife to your throat, then calmly telling you this was the only way.

A knock came at the door then.

"Come in," Dmitri said.

Alexei pushed the door open, holding newly delivered documents. His gaze stopped on me for only an instant before moving away.

"Boss, latest news." He handed over the documents. "Moretti has officially taken over Ashford's remaining assets. People from Diamond Row have also confirmed the news. The underworld all knows—Vivienne Ashford is dead."

When that last sentence fell, the room grew even quieter.

Alexei stepped back after speaking, waiting for orders.

Dmitri took the documents and scanned them briefly, saying flatly, "Get out."

"Yes, Boss."

The door closed again.

Dmitri turned around, looking at me, his expression still cold and hard.

"From today on," he said, "there will be no more Vivienne Ashford in this world."

This sentence wasn't a threat, wasn't humiliation. It was a final verdict.

My last shred of false hope shattered completely in that moment. Before last night, I'd still harbored a pathetic notion in my heart—maybe if I just endured, if Julian was still alive, if I could return to Manhattan, Ashford would still have a chance to turn things around.

But now, I was already a "dead person."

Ashford was truly finished.

Dmitri looked at me for a while, then walked toward the door.

"Vivienne," his voice was flat, "besides me, you have no second choice."

I stared at his back, jaw clenched tight.

"What if I refuse?"

He turned his head. Those gray eyes fell on my face, terrifyingly calm.

"You can try."

The tone wasn't raised, held no anger. But the oppressive weight was enough to send a chill down my spine.

Having said that, he pulled open the door and walked out.

Only I remained in the study.

I could imagine what would happen if I walked out of this building—being followed, being recognized, being dragged into a car, or not even making it past the corner.

I hated this forced clarity.

I turned to leave, but my gaze swept over the half-open safe behind the desk.

That heavy iron door wasn't completely closed. Through the gap, the corner of a dark file folder was visible.

My steps stopped.

Reason told me I should leave now, go back to my room immediately, treat everything in this study as if I'd never seen it. But that gap was like a hook, pulling my gaze bit by bit.

In the end, I still approached.

Inside the safe wasn't cash or jewelry. It was an entire row of extremely well-organized file boxes with labels on their sides. The top row—I only needed one glance for my heart to plummet.

Ashford.

Not just one.

I reached out and pulled out the frontmost file, my fingertips already cold.

Inside were equity change records, dated even earlier than when Ashford truly fell. Hidden accounts of several subsidiaries, offshore fund movements, internal board voting tendencies, private contacts between several old shareholders and Moretti—all marked clearly.

I pulled out the second file.

Family member information.

The clubs my father frequented, the charity luncheons my mother attended weekly, Julian's entry and exit records from the past six months, the household guard rotation list, driver backgrounds, even kitchen purchasing and accounting anomalies were all listed.

My fingers trembled, the pages nearly slipping.

The third file.

Transaction records, dark-line dealings, casino cuts, several deliberately smoothed-over port shipping manifests, all followed by names and dates. The fourth file was Julian's movements. The fifth was mine.

The shops I frequented, the parties I attended, the family backgrounds of several close friends. Who I'd met, who I'd spoken with, which day I'd left the opera house early—even my habits of which study and bedroom I used in the Manhattan mansion were recorded.

A chill spread through my entire body.

This definitely wasn't something hastily compiled in recent days.

Some of these documents had already aged, with creases at the edges, fine wear from repeated review.

The timeline stretched very long—long enough to prove one thing: Dmitri had been investigating Ashford long ago, had been watching us, watching me.

I turned page after page, my breathing growing tighter with each one. The feeling was terrible—like my past life that I'd thought so respectable had actually been dismantled from the shadows long ago, numbered, filed, and placed in this steel safe.

My family, my brother, myself—along with our every step—were all part of some plan.

I suddenly remembered Dmitri's words: a dead person has no value to him.

So the living me did.

I slowly put the files back, my fingertips still trembling slightly.

He hadn't saved me. He'd dragged me into a transaction that had already begun long ago.

And at the other end of that transaction stood Dmitri Solovyov.