Chapter 3 THE BIRTH OF EVA LARK

On Monday, her assistant from her old foundation called-whispering like a spy.

"Vivienne... I shouldn't be saying this. But something weird's going on."

"What do you mean?"

"Julian filed paperwork to restructure the foundation's board. You're being removed."

"What? I founded that organization-"

"I know. But there's legal language saying your 'personal misconduct' has compromised the foundation's image."

Vivienne gripped the phone so hard her knuckles went white. "He's destroying me."

There was silence. Then: "You should check your personal accounts, Viv."

She already had.

Every account tied to Julian-frozen.

Even her private savings, once managed by their shared wealth firm, was flagged for "compliance review." She was locked out of her financial life completely.

It wasn't just divorce.

It was an exile.

The final blow came in court.

Vivienne had scheduled an emergency hearing to gain access to marital assets. She walked into the courthouse in a sleek black pantsuit-chin high, heels sharp.

Julian wasn't there.

But his lawyer was-a man named Raymond Shaw. Cold. Cruel. Calculated.

She expected a fight.

What she didn't expect was betrayal.

Her lawyer-Martin Ellis, whom she'd trusted for over five years-stood beside her, shifting nervously.

And when the judge asked for a rebuttal, he hesitated.

"Mr. Ellis?" the judge prompted.

Martin cleared his throat. "Your Honor... after reviewing the evidence... my client is willing to accept temporary restrictions on her access to shared assets pending a formal review."

Vivienne blinked. "Excuse me?"

The courtroom spun.

He'd folded. Just like that. Without warning.

She grabbed his sleeve. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm trying to prevent further damage," he muttered under his breath. "Let's not make this worse."

But it was worse. She'd been sold out.

And in that courtroom-under the sterile lights, in front of people who barely looked at her as human-Vivienne Hartley Cross cracked.

Not with words.

Not with tears.

But with silence.

A silence that screamed louder than anything she could've said.

Outside, the cameras waited.

One flash. Two flashes. A swarm of microphones.

"Vivienne! Do you admit to the affair?"

"What's your response to Julian's allegations?"

"Are you mentally fit to manage your foundation?"

She didn't answer. She pushed past them, heart pounding, vision swimming.

By the time she reached the parking garage, her hands were shaking. She dropped her keys. Her breath hitched.

She leaned against a wall, pressing her forehead to the cool concrete.

And then-

She screamed.

One long, guttural, raw sound that echoed through the emptiness of the garage like a dying animal.

A breakdown.

Public. Visible. Human.

It was caught on someone's phone. Posted online within hours. Shared. Mocked. Laughed at.

"Vivienne Cross Melts Down Outside the Courthouse."

"She's Finally Cracking."

"Diva or Disaster?"

But what they didn't realize-

What Julian didn't see-

Was that something else was born in that scream.

Something sharper than grief.

Stronger than shame.

Resolve.

And as she sat alone on her apartment floor that night, she opened a fresh notebook.

On the first page, she wrote three words:

He'll regret this.

********

Vivienne Hartley Cross disappeared without a sound.

No goodbye parties. No final statement. No cryptic farewell post for the tabloids to dissect.

One day she was being photographed sobbing in a courthouse parking lot. Next, her apartment was empty. No forwarding address. No paper trail. No receipts.

The world assumed she cracked.

Her ex-friends clinked glasses over brunch and whispered about "poor Vivienne," grateful the social fallout hadn't touched them. "A shame," they'd say with dramatic sighs, as if her destruction were an unfortunate headline rather than a sport they eagerly consumed.

And Julian?

Julian didn't even blink.

He was too busy polishing his new image.

The stoic husband. The wronged billionaire. The pillar of restraint while his ex-wife "spiraled publicly."

By the time he and Genevieve were photographed together-matching black coats, smug smiles-Vivienne had already been gone for two weeks.

No one noticed the woman at the airport in the oversized hoodie, the dark glasses, and the fake name. No one paid attention to the sleek-haired brunette quietly boarding a regional train with nothing but a suitcase, a burner phone, and a notebook labeled:

Eva Lark – Start Over.

*******

She settled in a small town on the edge of the city. A forgotten place with rusting street signs, ancient bookstores, and too many secondhand shops.

It was quiet.

No cameras. No whispers.

Just anonymity.

She traded diamond earrings for instant coffee. Morning Pilates for long walks at dusk. The woman who once hosted world leaders in crystal-laced ballrooms now sat on park benches feeding pigeons with day-old bread.

And no one recognized her.

Not yet.

*********

Her bank accounts were still locked.

Her legal options were dead ends.

She tried to apply for freelance marketing jobs, only to be ghosted after the inevitable name check.

One email even responded:

"We admire your past work, but we're looking to avoid unnecessary media attention."

In short: she was toxic.

Which left her with two options-Beg for mercy.

Start building from the ground up.

She chose neither.

She chose war.

But not yet.