Declared Insane, I Came Back to Bury Him

The heavy oak door of the penthouse suite splintered inward with a deafening crack.

Wood fractured. Hinges shrieked.

"Showtime, you sick bastard," Elena shouted from the threshold.

Julian jerked away from me. He scrambled backward across the mattress, his bare back hitting the tufted leather headboard. The tangled silk sheets slipped down his waist. The heavy scent of scotch and expensive cologne hung thick in the stagnant air of the room.

We had not touched. He thought we had. That was the whole point.

A blinding wave of white light flooded the shadows. Flashbulbs erupted in rapid succession. Eighty-nine reporters surged through the broken doorway, their camera lenses zooming in on the disaster sprawling across the king-sized bed.

I didn't scramble to cover myself. The black silk robe I'd never once untied still hung closed at my waist. I sat up slowly. My scalp itched terribly.

I grabbed the synthetic platinum strands framing my face. With one harsh yank, I tore the cheap wig off my head.

I threw the blonde mess onto the carpet.

"Did you really think a cheap blonde wig was enough to hide my face from you, Julian?" I asked.

Julian froze. The muscles in his neck locked tight. He stared at me, his gaze tracking upward to meet my eyes.

"Vivian," he choked out.

"Surprise."

"What the fuck is this?" He lunged sideways, grabbing a pillow to shield himself. "Get these parasites out of my room! Now!"

"They aren't parasites," I replied, keeping my voice deadpan. "They are my invited guests."

"You set me up." His jaw clamped shut, then unclenched as his chest heaved. "You tricked me."

"I tricked you?" A sharp, jagged laugh ripped from my throat. It sounded entirely out of place in the chaos, loud and devoid of humor. "You ordered an escort. You told your assistant you wanted a blonde who wouldn't ask questions. You poured the drinks. You bragged for two hours straight about everything you've ever done — while a microphone sat in your collar the whole time. We never even touched, Julian. You were too drunk on your own voice."

Gasps rippled through the wall of journalists. The shutter clicks doubled in speed, sounding like a swarm of mechanical locusts.

"Shut your fucking mouth!" he roared.

"Why? You were happy to talk five minutes ago. You told me how you let Margaret die. You told me which judge you paid. You told me the name of the clinic."

"I didn't know it was you!"

"You didn't want to know. That's the difference." I tilted my head. "You wanted an audience who couldn't testify. You just got eighty-nine of them who can."

Julian threw his arm up to block the relentless camera flashes. The arrogant, untouchable CEO of the Sterling Empire was currently cowering behind a decorative pillow.

"I will ruin you for this," he snarled, dropping his voice into a vicious whisper meant only for me. "I will bury you so deep this time, they won't even find your bones."

"You already tried that three years ago."

I raised my right hand high in the air.

The frantic flashing of the cameras caught the massive stone on my index finger. The giant, flawless emerald refracted a cold, hard green glare across the room.

Julian's eyes tracked the movement. His pupils blew wide.

"Margaret's ring," he whispered. The fight drained out of his voice, replaced by raw shock. "That's impossible. That went missing the night she died."

"You mean the night you left her to die."

"Give that back to me right fucking now."

He dropped the pillow and lunged across the mattress. His hands clamped around my wrist, his fingers digging brutally into my skin.

I didn't flinch. I didn't pull away. I leaned closer to his face.

"Go ahead," I challenged him. "Break my wrist on camera. Show the world exactly how the great Julian Sterling treats the woman his mother chose over him."

His fingers trembled against my pulse point. He looked past my shoulder at the sea of lenses documenting his every twitch.

"I can pay you," he whispered frantically, the words meant only for me. "Whatever you want. Millions. I'll transfer the offshore accounts right now. Just tell them it's a stunt. Tell them you're an actress."

"An actress?"

"Yes. Fucking play along, Vivian! Name your price."

"My price?" I leaned in. "My price is your name on every front page in the country."

"You're a monster," he breathed.

"I'm a Sterling protégée," I corrected him. "Your mother trained me herself. She just forgot to tell you I learned how to play the game better than you ever did."

I ripped my arm out of his grip.

Julian collapsed backward onto the mattress. His shoulders slumped. The absolute, unshakeable arrogance that had defined his entire existence shattered into a million irreparable pieces right in front of me. The untouchable golden boy was gone, replaced by a terrified man realizing his life was over.

I stared at his defeat.

I smiled.

It wasn't a smile of joy. It was a wide, hollow stretching of my lips that made my cheekbones ache. Three years of hiding in the shadows, three years of swallowing my own screams, all culminating in this single, beautifully destructive moment.

"Mr. Sterling!" a reporter shouted from the front row. "Is it true you had Vivian Cross committed against her will?"

"Mr. Sterling! Did you withhold your mother's medication?"

"Did you orchestrate Margaret Sterling's death?"

The questions battered against the walls of the suite. Julian clamped his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Get out," he muttered. "Everyone get the fuck out!"

Nobody moved.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, planting my bare feet on the floor. I tightened the sash of the robe and stood. It was a transaction, this whole night. My time and my nerve for his total annihilation. And I had spent every minute clean.

"It's over, Julian," I said. "The board will strip you of your title by morning. The police will reopen Margaret's case by noon. And the entire world will know exactly what kind of man you really are."

"You ruined the family name," he spat, glaring at me through the gaps in his fingers.

"There was nothing left to save."

The crowd of reporters suddenly parted.

Elena stepped through the gap. Her sharp stilettos sank silently into the plush, cream-colored carpet as she approached the bed. She wore a tailored crimson suit that stood out fiercely against the drab hotel decor.

She didn't look at Julian. She didn't acknowledge the wreck of the sheets.

Elena stopped right beside my shoulder.

She reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out a thick stack of folded parchment. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she snapped the papers open.

She held the document high above the bed.

At the bottom of the page, a massive, undeniable red seal stamped the signatures into permanent law.