Chapter 2 THE FALL FROM GRACE

The press got hold of the story by lunchtime.

"Julian Cross files for divorce from his socialite wife, citing betrayal."

The headlines were merciless. Her face-flashed across tabloids. Rumors spiraled. The cheating wife. The disgrace. The liar.

By nightfall, her name was trending.

#VivienneScandal

#BillionaireBreakup

#CrossedOutWife

Her PR team called-frantic and useless. Her phone exploded with messages. Half of them are from society leeches looking for gossip. The rest from people who had no business commenting on her life.

She locked her phone in a drawer.

Two days passed in a haze.

Clara tried to call. So did a few others-half-hearted attempts. None came to see her.

Julian's legal team sent over a press release, spinning the narrative that Vivienne had been dishonest for months. That he'd tried to save the marriage.

Pictures surfaced of Julian and Genevieve at a private yacht party, laughing like lovers. It didn't take long for the internet to paint Genevieve as the "hero"-the devoted assistant picking up the pieces of a man's broken heart.

Vivienne wanted to scream.

But it was the silence that broke her.

She moved into a tiny apartment on the west side of the city-barely furnished, hardly safe. She lay awake each night, heart pounding, obsessively replaying every moment of their marriage. Had she missed something? Was there a sign?

No. There wasn't. He'd loved her. He'd once called her the only truth in his life.

So why had he believed a lie?

*****

On the fifth day, she drove back to the estate.

She didn't know why.

Maybe she thought Julian would be there, waiting, ready to admit he'd made a mistake. That he'd realize how absurd it all was. That he'd know her.

But instead, she was met by two private security guards at the gate.

"Ma'am, you're not allowed on the property," one of them said.

She stared at him. "I live here."

"Not anymore. Mr. Cross said your access was revoked."

"I-my things-"

"There's a moving truck scheduled for Friday. Your belongings will be delivered to your new address."

"New address?"

"Yes, ma'am. The apartment on 62nd. It's been pre-paid for six months."

She couldn't breathe.

"He sent me away?"

The guard looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry."

She turned and left, shame burning behind her eyes.

That night, she returned to the apartment-bare, lifeless, with gray peeling walls and a shower that coughed out rust-colored water.

She lay down on the mattress someone had delivered earlier. She hadn't brought anything else.

No photo frames. No wedding dress. No designer wardrobe. Just her phone, a duffel bag, and a silence that screamed in her ears.

And that was the moment the tears came.

Violent, aching sobs that wrecked her lungs. She cried for everything-Julian, their years together, the home they built, the lies, the betrayal, the public humiliation, and the ghost of a woman she used to be.

She cried until the morning.

And then-finally-she stopped.

Not because the pain had passed.

But because something else had begun to grow inside her.

Not rage. Not yet.

But the faintest flicker of disbelief.

And with it... suspicion.

This didn't feel like Julian.

This felt orchestrated.

And if someone had set her up-

God helped them when she found out who.

By the end of the week, Vivienne Hartley Cross was no longer a name-it was a scandal.

She watched her own life unravel on glossy magazine covers and late-night talk shows. Headlines oozed with smug schadenfreude.

"Vivienne Cross: Socialite or Serial Cheater?"

"Julian Cross Seen with Loyal Assistant-While Ex-Wife Spirals."

"From Gala Queen to Tabloid Tragedy: What Happened to Vivienne?"

The worst part? No one was defending her.

Her so-called friends-women she'd hosted charity events with, traveled to Monaco with, spent Christmases sipping champagne in Aspen with-began dropping her one by one. Invitations dried up. Her name was quietly removed from event committees. Even her interior design clients began pulling projects "for personal reasons."

She was a leper in Louboutins.

And every morning, she woke up in that cold apartment wondering if she'd dreamed it all-until her empty closet reminded her that she hadn't.

******

It was Friday when the movers arrived with her things.

Vivienne had gone to the apartment on 62nd pre-paid for six months by Julian.

Three men, tired and indifferent, wheeled in boxes marked "Closet A" and "Home Office." They didn't bother unpacking. One of them handed her a clipboard and a pen.

"Sign here," he said, yawning.

She did. Then sat on the floor, surrounded by fragments of her former life. Dresses wrapped in garment bags. Jewelry she didn't want to look at. A framed photo of her and Julian at their Tuscany vow renewal-still smiling. Still pretending.

She put the photo face down.

Then her phone buzzed.

From: UNKNOWN NUMBER

Subject: You Deserved Better.

Attached was a blurry photo.

Julian. Genevieve. Her hand on his chest, mouth too close to his ear. They were outside a restaurant-one Vivienne had once chosen for their tenth anniversary. A place she thought was sacred.

Bile rose in her throat.

The caption read:

"He's been with her for months. You just didn't see it."

She dropped the phone like it had burned her.

Her breath grew shallow. Months? That couldn't be right.

Julian had always been... difficult. Ambitious. Distracted. But never unfaithful-or so she believed.

But now, as her mind spiraled through the last year-late-night meetings, canceled dinners, vague excuses-a new thought began to bloom:

Had he planned this all along?