After My Husband Cheated, I Married His Greatest Rival

Vivian burst out of the heavy oak doors of the manor. The sky had opened up again. Rain poured down in sheets, washing away the heat of the confrontation but doing nothing for the fire in her veins.

"Vivian! Stop!"

Julian was behind her. He caught up to her on the wet stone steps.

"You think you're so smart?" he shouted over the thunder. "Embarrassing Scarlett like that?"

"She challenged me!" Vivian spun around. "I just played the game!"

"She makes me feel like a man!" Julian screamed. "You make me feel like... like a project! You're always so perfect, so cold!"

"I was perfect for you!" Vivian yelled back.

Julian lunged forward. He didn't mean to hit her. Or maybe he did. He shoved her. Hard.

"Get out of my face!"

Vivian stepped back. Her heel caught on the slick wet stone.

She fell.

Her lower back slammed into the sharp edge of the stone balustrade.

THUD.

Pain exploded in her spine. It wasn't a crack, but a deep, sickening bruise. She gasped, curling into a ball on the wet stairs.

"Ah!" The sound was ripped from her throat.

Julian froze. He looked at his hand, then at her. For a second, he looked horrified. Then, the mask of the victim slid back into place.

"Stop acting," he scoffed. "I barely touched you."

Vivian couldn't breathe. The pain was blinding. She looked up at him through the rain.

"Help... me..."

"Get up, Vivian. You're pathetic." He turned around and walked back into the house. The doors slammed shut.

He left her.

He actually left her.

Vivian dragged herself up. Every movement was agony. Tears mixed with the rain on her face. She stumbled to her car. She had to get away. She had to get out.

She started the engine. She drove. She didn't know where she was going. Her vision was blurry from pain and tears.

The road was slick. A curve came up too fast.

She hit the brakes. The car hydroplaned.

The world spun. Trees and sky mixed in a kaleidoscope of grey and green.

CRUNCH.

The car slammed into the guardrail. The airbag deployed, punching her in the chest. Dust and smoke filled the cabin.

Vivian slumped against the wheel. Her head throbbed. Her back was on fire. But she was alive. She wiggled her toes. She could move.

"Julian..." she whispered, but no one was there.

She closed her eyes.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone was knocking on the window.

She forced her eyes open. Through the spiderwebbed glass, she saw a black umbrella. A massive black car—a Rolls-Royce—was idling behind her.

The door was wrenched open.

A man stood there. He was tall. Imposing. He wore a charcoal grey suit that cost more than her car. The rain bounced off his umbrella, but he didn't seem to care that his shoes were getting wet.

"Can you move?"

His voice was deep. Baritone. It vibrated in her chest.

Vivian nodded weakly. "My... back... it hurts, but I can move."

The man handed the umbrella to a driver who had appeared beside him. He leaned into the car.

"I'm going to help you," he said. "Hold on to me."

He didn't wait for permission. He slid his arms under her knees and behind her back.

Vivian cried out as he lifted her. The pain was excruciating. She buried her face in his chest to stifle the scream.

He smelled... incredible.

Not vanilla. Not scotch.

Cedarwood. Crisp, clean mountain air. And something sharp, like expensive ink.

He carried her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. He walked to the Rolls-Royce. The driver opened the back door.

He settled her gently onto the leather seats. The interior was warm. Safe.

Vivian looked up at him. His face was in shadow, but she saw piercing eyes. Grey eyes. Intelligent and cold.

"Thank you," she whispered. Her hand was clutching his lapel. She looked down.

There was blood on his suit. Her blood from a cut on her forehead.

"Your suit..." she mumbled.

He glanced at the stain. He didn't frown. He didn't look disgusted. He looked indifferent.

"It's just fabric," he said.

He sat next to her. "To the hospital," he ordered the driver.

"Who... who are you?" Vivian asked, her consciousness fading.

He looked at her. For a moment, the coldness in his eyes thawed.

"Alexander," he said. "Alexander Vance."

The name floated in her mind. Vance. The enemy. The rival conglomerate.

"You're... the enemy," she slurred.

The corner of his mouth twitched. A ghost of a smile.

"Rest now, Mrs. Kensington. The enemy has you."

And then, everything went black.