Contracted by the billionaire

Vivenne's Pov

“You’re not my sister.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Clarissa looked up from her vanity mirror, lipstick paused halfway to her mouth. That same unbothered smile I remembered too well curved her lips, the one she wore right before everything went dark three years from now.

“Vivienne, what on earth are you talking about?” she asked lightly, turning back to the mirror. “Of course I’m your sister. Did you have another nightmare?”

I stood in the doorway of her bedroom, heart hammering so hard I thought the whole house could hear it. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of our family estate, catching on the crystal chandelier and making everything look too perfect, too golden. Three years. I had died three years from this moment, pushed out of the way like an inconvenient footnote. And now I was back.

I remembered the file. Every page, every seal, every lie. I remembered Margaret—our mother—telling me to step aside because Clarissa had “fallen in love” with Roman Steele. I remembered believing it. I remembered the accident that wasn’t an accident.

Not this time.

“I’m fine,” I said, keeping my voice steady. The old Vivienne would have apologized and left. This one didn’t. “Just… thinking out loud.”

Clarissa’s eyes met mine in the mirror again. For a second, something flickered there, curiosity, maybe the faintest trace of unease, but it vanished behind her usual perfect calm. “Well, stop thinking so loudly before breakfast. Mother hates it when we’re dramatic.”

I closed the door softly and walked down the long hallway, my bare feet silent on the Persian rugs. The house smelled the same: lemon polish, fresh flowers, and old money. But I wasn’t the same. My mind held memories that hadn’t happened yet, and a list of names and dates that could burn this entire empire to the ground.

I needed to move carefully. No mistakes like last time. Last time I went straight to the family solicitor with questions. Two days later I was dead.

This time I would go to Iris Lowe.

But first, I had to survive breakfast.

The dining room was already set with silver and fine china. Margaret sat at the head of the table like a queen, reading her newspaper. Father was absent again—business in the city, as usual. Clarissa glided in behind me, perfume trailing like a weapon.

“Vivienne,” Mother said without looking up, “you look pale. Are you still mooning over that betrothal nonsense? It’s been handled.”

Handled. The word tasted like ash. I sat down and spread my napkin across my lap with hands that barely trembled. “I was just wondering about Grandmother’s things,” I said quietly. “The ones in the attic. I thought I might sort through them today.”

Margaret’s gaze sharpened. “Whatever for? Your grandmother was a sentimental fool. Most of it should have been thrown out years ago.”

Clarissa reached for the toast. “Let her, Mother. It’ll keep her busy. We all know Vivienne likes quiet little projects.”

I smiled at my plate. They had no idea what quiet project I was planning.

After breakfast I slipped away before they could stop me. The attic stairs creaked under my weight, dust motes dancing in the narrow beam of my flashlight. I found the old trunk exactly where memory said it would be. Inside, beneath layers of yellowed lace and faded photographs, was the false bottom I now knew existed.

My fingers found the edge and pried it up.

There it was—the file. Thinner than I remembered, but the papers inside were real. Birth certificates. Hospital records. Forged documents. My real mother’s name. The payments made to silence people. The truth is that I was never Margaret’s daughter at all, but the rightful heir to a larger share of the Ashworth fortune that had been quietly stolen and reassigned to Clarissa.

I memorized every line again, even though the words were already burned into my brain. Then I closed the trunk, tucked the knowledge deep inside me, and went downstairs.

Iris Lowe’s office was in the city, a discreet firm known for handling inheritance disputes among the wealthy. I didn’t call ahead. I simply took one of the cars and drove.

The receptionist looked surprised when I asked for Iris by name. “Do you have an appointment, Miss Ashworth?”

“No,” I said. “But she’ll want to see me.”

Twenty minutes later I was sitting across from a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties. Iris Lowe studied me over steepled fingers.

“You’re Margaret Ashworth’s daughter,” she said. Not a question.

I placed a single sheet of paper on her desk—the handwritten list I had prepared that morning. Every forged document. Every altered date. Every name involved in burying my real identity. I had written it in the car, heart racing.

Iris read it slowly. The longer she read, the deeper the lines on her forehead became.

“How do you know all of this?” she finally asked, voice low.

“I did my research,” I said simply. “Thorough research.”

She stared at me for a long moment. I didn’t blink. Something in my face, maybe the absence of the old fear, must have convinced her.

“These are serious allegations,” Iris said. “If even half of this is true, it will tear your family apart.”

“Good,” I whispered.

She leaned back. “I need time to verify. But if this holds up…”

“It will.”

Within seventy-two hours the inheritance dispute was filed. The Ashworth estate records were frozen. Margaret received the legal notice over breakfast.

I was in the dining room when it happened. The envelope lay open beside her plate like a dead bird. Clarissa read over her shoulder, face draining of color.

“What is this?” Margaret demanded, voice rising. “Vivienne?”

I looked up from my coffee, calm as still water. “It’s the truth, Mother. Or should I say… the woman who raised me.”

Before she could respond, the phone rang. Clarissa answered it, then handed it to me with a strange expression.

“It’s Roman Steele,” she said.

I took the receiver. His voice was exactly as I remembered, deep, controlled, dangerous.

“Vivienne,” Roman said. “We need to talk. Now.”

My pulse spiked. In the original timeline, he had never called me like this. He had believed the

lies.

I smiled into the phone even though he couldn’t see it.

“I’m listening,” I said.