Vivian's POV
"Ms. Cross, HR wanted me to remind you that the temporary coverage offer still stands."
"And I want you to remind HR that my answer hasn't changed since yesterday," I say into the phone, then hang up before the receptionist can respond.
The office feels wrong without Elle.
I cycle through my tasks mechanically—the Berlin call at nine, the board prep materials scattered across my desk, the investor reports demanding attention.
My rhythm is off, like a metronome missing every third beat.
I keep glancing toward the door, expecting blonde hair and navy blazer, expecting warmth to walk through the frame and make the day bearable.
Instead, I get silence and cold coffee from the executive break room.
I refused the temp. Told Elle I could manage, that her contingencies would be enough.
Now I'm staring at a ceramic mug filled with bitter liquid that tastes like regret, and I understand exactly how much I've overestimated my own self-sufficiency.
One hundred eighty-two degrees, I think, pushing the mug aside. She never once asked what temperature I preferred.
The intercom buzzes. "Ms. Cross, Mr. Henderson is holding on line two," the receptionist announces. "He says it's urgent, something about the quarterly projections?"
"Transfer him," I say, already reaching for the file Elle color-coded before she left.
Henderson talks for twenty minutes about discrepancies I would have caught immediately if Elle had been here to pre-screen his concerns.
By the time I hang up, my temples are throbbing.
The afternoon brings a parade of department heads, each one fumbling through questions Elle would have anticipated before they reached my door.
Martinez from Legal needs clarification on the Morrison timeline.
Patel from Finance wants approval for budget reallocations.
Chen from Operations has concerns about supply chain disruptions that should have been addressed three meetings ago.
"I thought Ms. Wyeth briefed you on urgent matters before she left," I say to Chen, my patience thinning with each passing hour.
"She did, Ms. Cross, but there's been a development with the Singapore vendor, and I wasn't sure if the protocols she outlined would still apply given the circumstances, and normally I would ask her to clarify before bringing it to you, but—"
"The protocols apply," I cut in. "They always apply unless I specifically tell you otherwise, and in the future, please consult the detailed notes she left in the shared drive before scheduling a meeting that could have been an email."
Chen nods and retreats, and I'm left alone with the weight of everything Elle carries without complaint.
The calls, the briefings, the careful management of egos and expectations—she handles it all with grace that makes it look effortless.
I never realized how much effort effortless required until she wasn't here to demonstrate.
I could have accepted the temp, I think, staring at the stack of unsigned documents on my desk. But that would mean admitting someone else could fill the space she occupies.
No one can.
By six o'clock, my phone buzzes with a summons I've been expecting.
Grandmother: Dinner at the estate. Eight o'clock. Don't be late.
***
Our family estate sprawls across twelve acres of manicured grounds.
I grew up in these halls, learned to walk on these marble floors, and still the house feels more like a museum than a home.
Iolanthe Armitage waits in the study, brandy glass in hand, firelight casting shadows across her angular features.
At seventy-three, my grandmother commands rooms the way generals command armies.
"You're late again, Vesper," she says without turning from the fire.
"It's Vivian, Grandmother."
The correction lands in the silence between us, familiar as an old scar. Eight years of this, and she still refuses to acknowledge the name I've made my own.
Iolanthe finally turns.
"You are Vesper Armitage, whether you choose to hide behind your mother's maiden name or not. Playing pretend at the office doesn't change your blood."
"I'm not hiding. I earned my position without Father's shadow hanging over every promotion."
"And yet here you stand, summoned to your family home like every other Armitage before you."
She swirls the brandy, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
"Your little rebellion has always amused me, dear girl. Using Cross, pretending you're somehow separate from the dynasty that built everything you claim to have earned on your own merit."
"My merit is my own."
"Your opportunities were not." Iolanthe settles into her chair. "But I didn't summon you here to rehash old disagreements. Sit."
I settle into the leather chair across from her, recognizing the particular satisfaction radiating from her expression.
It's the look she wears before announcements that reshape family trajectories for generations.
"I've secured a match for Leander," she says. "An heiress from one of the old families. Her name is Elowen Kincaid. Old money, impeccable breeding, and a trust clause that requires marriage before thirty."
I keep my expression neutral, though anxiety tightens in my chest.
The Kincaid name carries weight—shipping empires, philanthropic foundations, a reclusive dynasty that guards its privacy with almost militant dedication.
"The contracts are nearly finalized," Grandmother continues. "Your brother will make the formal introduction at next week's engagement dinner, and I expect everything to proceed smoothly from there."
"Leander is twenty-six," I say carefully. "You're rushing this."
"I wouldn't need to rush anything if my eldest grandchild had already fulfilled her obligations."
Iolanthe's gaze sharpens, and I see the steel beneath her elegant exterior.
"But since you've made your position abundantly clear… Waiting for love, was it? How romantic of you. How utterly impractical."
The words land on the old wound we never discuss directly. My refusal to marry. My inability to give her the kind of alliance she wanted.
The truth I've never spoken aloud in this house.
"Leander agreed to this?" I ask, redirecting before she can press further.
"Your brother understands duty," Grandmother says. "He doesn't have the luxury of your... romantic idealism. Someone must secure this family's future, and Leander will do what's best for this family. As will you, in whatever capacity remains available to you."
"I wasn't aware supporting my brother's arranged marriage was among my remaining capacities."
"Everyone makes sacrifices," Grandmother replies coolly. "The difference between successful people and unsuccessful ones is knowing when to set aside personal whims for greater purposes. Your brother understands this. I had hoped you might learn from his example."
I nod slowly, processing the implications.
Leander has always been more pliable than I am—more willing to bend beneath Grandmother's expectations.
But marriage is permanent in ways that business decisions aren't.
"The engagement dinner is next week," Iolanthe continues. "At their estate in Vermont. I expect your full support and your most diplomatic behavior."
Vermont. Again.
The word lands differently now than it did this morning.
Elle is in Vermont, mourning a grandfather whose death has disrupted my carefully ordered world.
And now Grandmother is sending me to the same state for an engagement I knew nothing about.
"I'll clear my schedule," I say, because refusal isn't an option Iolanthe entertains.
"Good." She takes a measured sip of brandy, watching me over the rim. "The girl is exceptional, by all accounts."
"I'm sure Leander will be very happy," I reply flatly.
Grandmother's thin smile doesn't waver. "I wasn't speaking of Leander's happiness, dear girl."
What does that mean?
I wait for clarification, but Iolanthe rises, indicating our conversation has concluded.
The fire crackles in the silence, and the growing suspicion that nothing in my carefully ordered world is what it seems settles deeper into my bones.
"You'll like her," Iolanthe adds, pausing at the study door with that same thin smile. "I'm quite certain of it."