Chapter 19 Vivica
VIVICA
The sting on my face radiated into embarrassment throughout my entire body. Every cell burned with shame as the crowd looked on. How dare that black bitch hit me like that in front of everyone. Who in the hell did she think she was?
Did she not know who I was? This was my city! I ran this town and when a bitch gets out of line, I sent them packing. Miss nappyhead had met an enemy in me.
India was at my side in seconds, her hand on my elbow, guiding me through the stunned crowd with the practiced ease of someone who’d been managing my public image for years.
“Let’s get you to the bathroom now,” she murmured.
I let her lead me, my heels clicking against the marble floor, my chin held high even as my cheek throbbed with the ghost of that woman’s palm. I could feel the eyes on me. The whispers starting. The phones that had captured every second of my humiliation.
By morning, this would be everywhere.
The bathroom was mercifully empty. India closed the door behind us and immediately pulled me into her arms.
“Baby, are you okay? Let me see—”
She tilted my face toward the light, examining the red mark that was probably already blooming into something uglier. Her fingers were gentle. Her eyes were soft with concern. And when she leaned in to kiss me, I pulled back.
“That’s not what I need right now.”
India blinked, hurt flickering across her features before she masked it. “Okay. What do you need?”
“I need to think.” I turned to the mirror, examining the damage. The slap had been hard enough to leave a mark but not hard enough to bruise. Small mercies. “That woman just assaulted the mayor of Washington DC in front of three hundred witnesses. I need to figure out how to handle this.”
“Press charges.” India’s reflection appeared behind mine. “It’s assault. Clear as day. Half the room recorded it. She’ll be arrested before sunrise.”
“No.”
“No?” India frowned. “Vivica, she HIT you. In PUBLIC. You can’t just let that—”
“I said no.” I met her eyes in the mirror.
“Someone like that? Someone bold enough to slap me in front of everyone? She’s got secrets.
Deep ones. You don’t move that reckless unless you’ve already got nothing to lose…
or you’re too stupid to know what you’re risking.
I could see it in her eyes.” I smiled, and it felt cold even to me.
“I want to know which one it is. And then I want to destroy her. Her reputation. Her little business. That relationship with my son. Everything she loves. I want to burn it all to the ground and make her watch.”
India was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded slowly. “That’s more your style.”
It was. It always had been.
People thought I was born into this life. The designer clothes. The political power. The mansion in Georgetown and the summer house in the Hamptons. They looked at Vivica Banks and saw old money. Establishment. Royalty.
They had no idea.
I grew up in a Section 8 apartment in Southeast. Same neighborhood that little ghetto girl probably crawled out of. My mother worked two jobs and still couldn’t keep the lights on. My father was a question mark—could’ve been any of the men who floated through her bedroom when rent was due.
I learned early that beauty was currency. That men were stupid. That the right smile and the right dress could open doors that hard work never would.
Alexander Banks was my golden ticket.
I met him at a charity gala when I was twenty-two and decided that he was going to be my man. I made myself into exactly what he needed—soft, supportive, maternal. The perfect daughter-in-law for his mother Rita to approve of. The perfect trophy wife to parade at business functions.
He never knew the real me. None of them did.
The marriage was transactional from the start. He got a beautiful wife who made him look good and kept his house in order. I got access to the Banks fortune and a platform to build something of my own.
Mayor of Washington DC. A position I’d held for nearly two decades now, through strategic alliances and creative redistricting and the kind of backroom deals that would make a prosecutor salivate.
Contractors who wanted city bids knew to come to me first. A little donation here, a little kickback there, and suddenly their permits sailed through approval while their competitors got buried in red tape.
I’d made millions that way—money Alexander never knew about, funneled into accounts he couldn’t touch.
And my sons? My precious boys who thought they’d built their empire all on their own?
Every permit. Every license. Every zoning approval that Banks Reserve ever needed had crossed my desk first. I’d let them think they were self-made, but the truth was I held the strings.
One phone call and I could bury their little spirits company in regulatory hell. They needed me more than they knew.
Not that they appreciated it. Not that any of them ever appreciated anything I did.
Alexander certainly hadn’t.
The affairs started three years into our marriage.
His first, not mine. Some young thing from his office who thought she was special. I found out, confronted him, and he had the audacity to shrug. Like it was nothing. Like I was supposed to accept it as part of the deal.
So I got my own. A personal trainer with abs you could grate cheese on and no ambition beyond his next workout. Meaningless. Physical. Revenge.
We settled into a pattern after that. He had his women. I had my men. We smiled for the cameras and slept in separate bedrooms and maintained the illusion of a perfect marriage for the sake of appearances.
Then Tessa King happened.
I’ll never forget the day I found out. A credit card statement. A jewelry store I’d never been to. A receipt for a diamond bracelet that damn sure wasn’t on my wrist.
I did my research. Tessa King—wife of Silas King, mother of two boys. Beautiful. Wealthy. Bored. The kind of woman who had it all, yet that wasn’t enough for her.
And she was pregnant with Alexander’s child.
That I could not allow.
Divorce wasn’t an option. The prenup was airtight—I’d get nothing. And I’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to walk away empty-handed.
So I made a different kind of deal.
Silas King was a proud man. The kind of man who would rather die than be publicly humiliated. When I approached him with proof of his wife’s affair—complete with photographs, hotel receipts, and a paternity test I’d bribed a lab tech to obtain—he didn’t cry. Didn’t rage. Just went very, very quiet.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“The same thing you want. For this problem to go away.”
I gave him Alexander’s schedule. His travel itinerary. The make and model of his car. Even had a copy of the key made from the spare Alexander kept in his desk drawer.
Silas was a boss and ran an entire empire up in New York. He knew how to make a death look like an accident.
Three weeks later, Alexander Banks lost control of his vehicle on a winding road. Crashed through a guardrail. Died on impact.
I wore black to the funeral. Cried on cue. Played the grieving widow so well that Rita—that old bat who’d never liked me—actually held my hand during the service.
Silas and I never spoke again. Didn’t need to. We both got what we wanted. He got revenge on the woman who’d betrayed him. I got freedom—and a fortune.
Tessa had the baby anyway. A boy. Cannon, she named him and gave him up for adoption. He was grown now, somehow worming his way into my sons’ lives, a constant reminder of Alexander’s betrayal.
But I’d won in the end. I always won.
At least, I thought I always won.
Then Dante happened.
That man. That beautiful, treacherous, sociopathic man who’d played me the same way I’d played Alexander all those years ago. Who’d made me feel things I hadn’t felt in decades. Who’d looked me in my eyes and lied and I’d believed every word because I wanted to.
I was done with men after that. Done with their games, their egos, their endless capacity for betrayal.
India was different. India was soft where men were hard. Patient where they were demanding. She understood discretion. Understood that what we had could never be public—not for a politician in my position, not in this city, not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But she was mine. And I was hers. And that was enough.
For now.
The bathroom door opened.
I spun around, ready to eviscerate whatever foolish woman had come in here. But it was only Farah.
The daughter of Rashid, though she didn’t know I knew that. Didn’t know about my history with her father, the deals we’d made, the secrets we shared. To her, I was just the mayor. Just another powerful woman at a fancy party.
She looked terrible. Mascara streaking down her face. That cream dress rumpled. A red mark on her cheek that matched the one on mine.
The other victim of Prime’s little street rat. I could tell by her interactions with my son that she liked him. She was possibly in love with him. Why would she love him? I have no idea. She was a pretty girl and she could do better than some murdering criminal.
“Mayor Banks.” Her voice wobbled. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here, I just needed—”
“It’s fine.” I softened my voice, shifting into politician mode. Warm. Approachable. Maternal. “Come in. Close the door.”
She obeyed, and I watched her crumble against the sink. Fresh sobs shaking her shoulders.
“She HIT me,” Farah wailed. “In front of everyone. At MY event. I planned this whole thing and she just—she ATTACKED me—”
“I know.” I moved closer, placed a comforting hand on her back.
“She’s—” Farah’s face twisted with something ugly. “She’s dating Prentice. We have history, me and him. And she can’t stand it. She’s been jealous of me since the beginning, and tonight she finally snapped.”
Interesting. So there was more to this than a random act of violence.
“Are you going to press charges?” I asked.
“YES.” Farah dabbed at her eyes. “Absolutely. She can’t just get away with this. I want her arrested. I want her—”
“No.”
Farah blinked. “What?”
“Don’t press charges.” I met her eyes in the mirror. “Not yet.”
“But she—”
“I know what she did. But think about it. You press charges, she gets a slap on the wrist, maybe some community service, and moves on with her life.” I shook my head slowly.
“Women like that? They need to be handled differently. You have to find their weakness first. Expose it. Destroy them from the inside out. THEN you go for the kill.”
Farah stared at me for a long moment. Then something shifted in her expression. The tears stopped. The wobbling chin steadied.
“You’re right,” she said quietly. “You’re absolutely right.”
“I know I am.” I reached into my clutch and pulled out a card. “Call me tomorrow. I have resources. We can help each other.”
Farah took the card like it was made of gold. “Thank you, Mayor Banks. Really. Thank you.”
“Us women have to stick together.” I smiled, and it almost felt genuine. “Now go clean yourself up. Don’t let anyone see you like this.”
She nodded, disappearing into a stall to fix her face. I turned back to India, who had been watching the whole exchange with carefully blank eyes.
“I need you to do a background check on Zahara,” I said quietly. “Whatever her last name is. Find out everything. Where she came from. What she’s hiding. I want to know every secret she’s ever kept.”
India nodded. Then paused. “That’s going to cost extra. Deep digs take time. Resources. Favors I’ll have to call in.”
Of course it would. Everything with India cost extra these days. What started as a mutually beneficial arrangement had slowly become a drain on my private accounts. The girl was getting greedy.
But she was also useful. And discreet. And I needed both right now.
“Fine,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”
India smiled a smile that used to make my heart flutter, but now just made my wallet ache. “I’ll get started tonight.”
She slipped out of the bathroom, already tapping on her phone, and I turned back to the mirror.
My reflection stared back at me. Composed. Controlled. Every hair in place despite the chaos of the evening.
But underneath the mask, something was stirring. A feeling I couldn’t quite name. Like standing on train tracks and feeling the vibration before you see the light.
Something was coming.
Something I couldn’t see yet.