9. Vivienne
Vivienne
"Smile, darling. At least pretend you're enjoying yourself."
My mother's voice, perfectly modulated to carry no further than my ear, is nonetheless sharp as a blade. She stands beside me at the edge of the Waldorf's grand ballroom, champagne flute held at the precise angle to appear casual without risking a spill on her Valentino gown.
"I'm smiling, Mother," I reply, maintaining the appropriate society curve of lips that suggests pleasant engagement without appearing overeager. "See? Teeth and everything."
"Sarcasm doesn't become you," she says with a barely perceptible sigh. "Neither does impulsivity. An engagement, Vivienne? To Jaxon Hart, of all people?"
I take a sip of champagne, using the glass to hide my expression.
Across the room, Jaxon is engaged in conversation with several board members from the children's charity hosting tonight's gala.
Despite his professed discomfort with these events, he navigates the social requirements with surprising grace.
The women in the group lean toward him slightly, drawn by the gravitational pull of his charisma even as he discusses something as mundane as fundraising strategies.
"He's not what you think," I say, surprising myself with the defensiveness in my tone.
Mother arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "And what do I think?"
"That he's the same wild rockstar from the tabloids. That he's beneath our family's standards. That he's... unworthy."
She studies me for a moment, genuine concern flickering behind her polished exterior. "I think he's a man with a complicated history and questionable judgment who has suddenly convinced my brilliant daughter to accept a proposal after knowing him for less than a month."
Put that way, it does sound ridiculous. But then, Mother doesn't know the truth behind our arrangement.
"Sometimes you just know," I offer, falling back on the romantic narrative we've crafted.
"Please," she scoffs softly. "You've never been the impetuous type. Not even as a teenager. You calculate, you plan, you consider all angles." She leans closer. "So what's really going on, Vivienne?"
For a heartbeat, I'm tempted to tell her everything. To explain about Lily's custody, my career struggles, and the mutually beneficial arrangement. But revealing the truth would unravel everything we've constructed so carefully.
"I love him," I say instead, the lie feeling strangely like something adjacent to truth. "And he loves me."
"And your father? Have you considered what this means for him? For his position in the community?"
Of course. Everything always comes back to how my choices affect my father's standing.
"Father will survive the terrible scandal of his daughter marrying a billionaire businessman who happens to also be a Grammy-winning musician," I reply dryly.
"This isn't about money and you know it," Mother counters. "It's about reputation. Character. Henry Clarke's son-in-law can't be someone with Jaxon Hart's... history."
I turn to face her fully. "What exactly is the problem with Jaxon's history? That he rejected the path his parents set out for him? That he built his own success instead of inheriting it? That he's taking responsibility for his niece when he could have walked away?"
Mother blinks, clearly surprised by my vehemence.
"The problem, Vivienne, is that you've allowed an infatuation to derail your life plan," she says finally. "Harvard, Princeton, carefully cultivated career connections—all to end up as what? A rockstar's wife? A ready-made mother to his orphaned niece?"
The unfairness of her assessment ignites something fierce in me. "I'm still exactly who I've always been, Mother. Still running campaigns for major clients, still building my career. The only difference is that now I have a partner who supports my ambitions rather than trying to contain them."
"Darling—" she begins, but I cut her off.
"I should check on my fiancé," I say, deliberately emphasizing the word. "It was lovely catching up."
I move away before she can respond, weaving through Manhattan's elite toward Jaxon.
As I approach, I notice the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.
He's performing, just as I was with my mother, maintaining the acceptable societal facade while keeping his true self carefully guarded.
"There you are," I say warmly, sliding my arm through his. "Sorry to interrupt, but Gerald Lumina was asking after you."
It's a white lie, but one that gives Jaxon a graceful exit from whatever tedious conversation he's enduring. The gratitude in his eyes is immediate.
"If you'll excuse me," he says to the group with a practiced smile. "Duty calls."
Once we're a few steps away, he leans close. "You're a lifesaver. If I had to hear one more anecdote about Chester's yacht renovation, I might have committed a felony."
I laugh, the sound genuine in a way my earlier conversation with Mother couldn't extract. "Chester Whitmore? He's been boring people with that yacht story since 2018. The man has exactly one interesting thing in his life, and it's not even a particularly impressive boat."
Jaxon's eyes crinkle with amusement. "How do you survive these events with your sanity intact?"
"Years of practice," I reply, guiding us toward a quieter corner. "Plus, I've developed a comprehensive mental catalog of everyone's conversation patterns. It helps with avoidance strategies."
"Share your wisdom, oh social samurai," he teases. "Who else should I be steering clear of?"
I scan the room, pointing out various threats with subtle nods.
"Margaret Henley by the ice sculpture—she'll trap you in a forty-minute monologue about her grandson's lacrosse achievements.
The Wilson twins near the bar—they'll try to convince you to invest in whatever dubious startup they're funding this month.
And under no circumstances should you get caught alone with—"
"Jaxon Hart, as I live and breathe."
The sultry voice behind us makes Jaxon stiffen.
I turn to find a stunning woman in a red dress that seems designed specifically to display maximum skin while technically remaining appropriate for a charity event.
She's tall, model-thin, with expertly tousled blonde hair and the confident smile of someone used to getting exactly what she wants.
"Alessandra," Jaxon acknowledges, his tone carefully neutral. "I didn't realize you were back in New York."
"Just flew in yesterday." Her eyes slide to me, assessing and dismissive in the space of a heartbeat. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your... friend?"
The slight pause before "friend" speaks volumes. Clearly, this woman hasn't checked social media in the past week.
"Alessandra Devereaux, meet Vivienne Clarke. My fiancée."
The flicker of shock that crosses her perfect features is deeply satisfying.
"Fiancée?" She recovers quickly, smile tightening. "My goodness. That was... fast."
"When you know, you know," I reply, pressing closer to Jaxon's side. His arm slides around my waist, warm and secure.
"How fascinating." Alessandra's gaze drops to my engagement ring, then back to Jaxon. "I seem to recall you once saying marriage was 'an outdated institution designed to suppress authentic connection.'"
"People change," Jaxon says simply. "Perspectives evolve."
"Clearly." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Well, I won't keep you. Perhaps we could catch up later? For old times' sake. I'm staying at the Four Seasons through Sunday."
The invitation is blatant, delivered right in front of me as if I'm irrelevant.
Something hot and unfamiliar coils in my stomach—a feeling I belatedly recognize as jealousy.
Which is ridiculous. This arrangement with Jaxon is business, not emotion.
I have no claim to him beyond our agreed-upon terms.
Yet the thought of him with this woman makes me want to claw her perfect face.
"Vivienne and I have plans this weekend," Jaxon replies smoothly. "But it was good seeing you, Alessandra."
The dismissal is polite but firm. She acknowledges it with a slight narrowing of her eyes. "Of course. Congratulations on your... engagement."
She slinks away, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume and unspoken history in her wake.
"Ex-girlfriend?" I ask, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
"Brief thing, years ago," Jaxon confirms, his hand still at my waist. "Nothing serious."
"Didn't look like nothing from where I was standing."
He glances down at me, one eyebrow raised. "Vivienne Clarke, are you jealous?"
"Don't be ridiculous," I scoff, even as heat creeps into my cheeks. "I'm simply maintaining our cover. People would expect me to be territorial over my fiancé."
"Ah, of course. Method acting." His eyes dance with amusement. "You're very committed to authenticity."
"Shut up," I mutter, fighting a smile.
"Make me," he challenges softly.
The air between us shifts, charged with something that has nothing to do with our arrangement and everything to do with the way his eyes darken when they meet mine.
For a heartbeat, I consider taking him up on the challenge, curious what his lips would feel like against mine without cameras or audiences to justify it.
The moment is broken by the arrival of Gerald Lumina, who claps Jaxon on the shoulder with the enthusiastic familiarity of someone who's had exactly two glasses of scotch.
"Hart! Just the man I wanted to see. And Vivienne, looking radiant as always." Gerald beams at us. "I've been telling everyone about our partnership. The campaign mock-ups are generating tremendous buzz internally."
I smile, professional instincts taking over. "That's wonderful to hear, Gerald. We're excited about the direction."
"As you should be! Revolutionary approach, truly." He turns to Jaxon. "And having you on board for the men's line—stroke of genius. The test panels are responding extraordinarily well to the concept."