Genius Wife's Revenge: Too Late For Regret

Vivian's knuckles were white on the steering wheel of the Malibu. The air conditioning had died three months ago, and the New York heat was turning the car into a rolling oven. She was no longer wearing the rags of her "wife" persona. She was dressed in a sharp, tailored pencil skirt and a silk blouse she had retrieved from her storage unit-clothes that fit the woman she actually was, not the one she pretended to be.

She was rehearsing her resignation speech. Mr. Sterling, you can take this contract and shove it up your... No. Too emotional. Mr. Sterling, I refuse to work for a corporate vulture... Too cliché.

The traffic light ahead turned yellow. Vivian accelerated. She just wanted to get this over with.

Suddenly, a massive black SUV in front of her slammed on its brakes.

There was no time to think. Vivian slammed her foot down, but the old brake pads of the Chevy just screamed in protest.

CRUNCH.

The sound of metal folding on metal was sickening. Vivian was thrown forward, the seatbelt locking painfully across her chest. Her forehead banged against the steering wheel.

Steam hissed from the hood of her car.

"Perfect," she groaned, rubbing her head. "Just perfect."

Ahead, the rear door of the black SUV-a Maybach, she noted with a sinking feeling-opened.

A bodyguard stepped out first, scanning the perimeter. Then, a pair of polished oxfords hit the asphalt. Long legs clad in dark suit trousers followed.

Julian Ford-Sterling IV emerged. He adjusted his cufflinks, looking at the crumpled rear of his quarter-million-dollar car with an expression of mild inconvenience.

Vivian grabbed her sunglasses from the dashboard. They were oversized, cat-eye frames. She shoved them on. She checked the mirror. Her lip was bleeding slightly. Good. It added to the look.

She kicked her door open.

"Are you insane?" she shouted, stepping out into the street. "Who brakes in the middle of an intersection?"

Julian turned. He saw a woman in a pencil skirt and a silk blouse that had seen better days, storming toward him. Her hair was a messy wave of chestnut. Her mouth was a slash of red anger.

He didn't recognize her.

Why would he? His wife was a hunched-over creature in oversized cardigans. This woman walked like she owned the pavement.

"You rear-ended me," Julian said calmly, his voice carrying over the honking horns. "That usually implies you were following too closely."

"I was driving perfectly!" Vivian snapped, stopping two feet from him. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. He was tall. Annoyingly tall. "You stopped for a pigeon!"

Julian looked past her to the road. There was, indeed, a pigeon waddling away unbothered.

"I stopped for a pedestrian," he lied smoothly. "You, however, were clearly distracted. Texting? Applying makeup?"

"Planning a murder," Vivian hissed. "Currently yours."

Julian blinked. A corner of his mouth twitched. He wasn't used to being shouted at. Most people apologized. Most women flirted.

"You have spirit," he said, stepping closer. He towered over her, casting a shadow that blocked the sun. "But spirit doesn't pay for a dented bumper on a Maybach."

Vivian felt that familiar pull-the magnetic field that surrounded him. It made her want to punch him and kiss him simultaneously. She hated it.

"My insurance will cover it," she lied. Her insurance barely covered a scratch.

"I doubt it," Julian said, glancing at her rusted Chevy. "But I'm a generous man. I'll have my lawyers contact you."

"Don't bother," Vivian reached into her purse. She pulled out a business card-one she had printed an hour ago at Kinko's. She slapped it against his chest.

He looked down. The card remained stuck to his lapel for a second before he caught it.

Vivian Sullivans. Designer. S.W. Studios.

Julian froze. He stared at the name.

"Vivian," he said, testing the word. His face twisted in a grimace of distaste.

Vivian held her breath behind her sunglasses. Here it comes. The recognition.

Julian looked up. His eyes swept over her face, lingering on her mouth, then her hair. But there was no spark of memory. Only annoyance.

"Vivian Sullivans," Julian repeated, his voice dripping with ice. "Of all the names in New York. I suppose mediocrity loves company."

He didn't know. He truly, genuinely didn't see her. He only saw the name of the woman he had just divorced-a name he clearly loathed. The realization was a slap in the face. She had lived with this man for two years, shared meals (mostly silent ones), and he didn't know her features well enough to recognize her without ugly glasses and bad foundation.

"I'm not soft," Vivian said, her voice dropping an octave. "And I'm late for work. My new boss is a tyrant."

Julian raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"A complete narcissist," she confirmed. "So if you'll excuse me, I need to go get yelled at."

She turned on her heel and marched back to her steaming car. She yanked the door open, got in, and slammed it.

Julian stood in the middle of the street, watching her. He should be annoyed. His car was damaged. He was late. And her name was a curse.

But as he watched the angry brunette wrestle her car into gear and screech away, he felt something he hadn't felt in years.

Amusement.

"Gavin," he said as he got back into the Maybach.

"Sir?"

"Call the legal team. Tell them to go easy on the settlement for the crash."

"Yes, sir. Who was it?"

Julian pulled the card out again. He ran his thumb over the name.

"An employee," he said. "With a very unfortunate name. Run a check on her. I want to know if she's related to my ex-wife, or if God is just playing a cruel joke on me."