Two months after the bookstore's grand opening, an uninvited guest arrived.
Business was slow that afternoon. A woman dressed in a pristine Chanel suit and flawless makeup pushed open the door, her high heels clicking sharply against the floorboards.
"Welcome," I said, but the customer service smile froze on my face the moment I recognized her.
It was Vivian Lane.
Yet she looked entirely different from the disheveled, manic woman at the anniversary banquet. She was immaculate, her eyes sharp and clear—showing absolutely no signs of a psychiatric patient.
She walked straight over to the counter, sizing me up with a mocking smile curling her crimson lips. "Violet? I never imagined you'd fall this low after divorcing Arthur, running a pathetic little shop like this."
I laid my book down
