Chapter Two
1069 Words
Vivica’s POV
I held the new phone in my hand, fingers still trembling from adrenaline. The screen was too bright, too unfamiliar—cold compared to the device that had shattered just hours ago. But at least I could reach my people again. My daughter was home. Safe. Daniel had confirmed it with a quiet text. Jamal had double-checked the perimeter before allowing me out of the car.
And even though it appeared we were no longer on danger, I still found myself looking over my shoulder.
The lights in Margaret’s office were soft, warm gold bouncing off the glass desk and the cream rug beneath our feet. Her whole aesthetic was designed to soothe. But I wasn’t soothed. My jaw clenched so tight it felt fused.
Margaret sat a few feet away, arms crossed, her signature burgundy blazer sharp against her cinnamon skin. Her hair was pulled into a very severe looking ponytail. I had never seen her style her hair anyother way.
My publicist had come highly recommended. She'd been with me for five months. And so far there were no disappointments.
“Call my lawyer,” I said, breaking the silence.
“Vivica—”
“I want a detective. An investigator. The whole goddamn force if I can get it.” I didn’t raise my voice, but the ice in it was enough. “Someone tried to kill me today. Someone tried to murder me. In daylight. What the actual f**k?”
Margaret inhaled like she was about to walk a tightrope. “I understand. I do. And I'm doing everything I can to track these people down. But you have to understand the importance of laying low for now.
Lay low? You want me to fold my hands and wait for someone to come around and put a bullet in my head?
Margaret took a deep steadying breathe. That's not what I'm saying, Miss Langford. We both know you do not exactly have a great track record with the police. I'd say we don't involve them for now. We don't need the public making a ridicule of you more than they already have.
"I do not care about the stupid public. I glared into Margaret's eyes. What I do care about are results. I need results.”
“You will get results, Miss Langford, I give you my full assurance. However, this cannot go public. You’re not well liked,” she said, soft but firm. Margaret had never hesitated about telling me the truth. Sometimes, I loathed her for that.
“You’ve never tried to be. Swerve Magazine called you the most ruthless billionairess in Avalon. Your comments section is a warzone. You have stalkers, haters, disgruntled employees, competitors, and—frankly—people who just hate seeing a woman with that much money and no man beside her.”
“I don’t give a damn who likes me,” I snapped. “And not very many people know what I really own. They don’t know about the clubs. The rings. The private auctions. The underground network that feeds this empire.” My voice dropped lower. “What they do know is that I front a hair business. They think I sell wigs.”
Margaret raised a brow. “A hair business that, by all logical standards, shouldn’t be making enough to fund your lifestyle. That’s the problem, Vivica. You live loud. Private jets, penthouse suites, black-tie events. You do your best to keep your real revenue streams quiet, but people talk. Rumors fly. Some think you’re laundering money. Others think you’re sleeping with politicians.”
I folded my arms and leaned against the wall, my body tense, my soul boiling. “That doesn’t explain a calculated hit job on my life.”
She shrugged. “You’ve got competitors. Men who smile in your face and scheme behind your back. A few of them would kill to see you disappear.”
I paused. “You think this was business?”
“I don’t know what to think yet,” she said. “But neither you nor Jamal saw the faces. No license plates. No identifying marks. This wasn’t a warning. This was meant to be final.”
I exhaled, long and low. “Then we start from there. Call Charles. Tell him I want someone on this by morning.”
“I’ll do it,” she said, moving to her desk and opening her MacBook. “But until we have leads, we have to be smart.”
“I’m always smart.”
“I mean careful. Lay low. No public appearances for a while.”
“That’s not going to be easy.” I stood up quickly unable to sit still anymore.
“I have board meetings this week. I’m hosting the gala next month. The charity dinner is still locked in—”
“You’ll do them remotely. Or you won’t do them at all.” Margaret looked up. “And we need to talk about your security.”
I tensed. “Jamal is enough.”
“He’s one man. He can’t be everywhere.”
“He’s trained. He’s lethal. He saved my life today.”
“And he nearly bled out doing it,” she countered. “You need someone else. You need at least two extra guards. One with you. One with your daughter.”
I straightened, my spine rigid. “No.”
“Vivica—”
“I’m not a damsel. I don’t need to be flanked by men with guns every time I walk into a damn room. I’ve survived worse than this.”
“Maybe so. But you’re not just surviving anymore. You’ve got a little girl to think about now. And a lot more to lose.”
Margaret had always known what go say to stop me in my tracks. She was right. I had a lot more to lose now. This wasn't just about me.
Margaret stood up from her chair and moved slower now, her voice softer. “I’m not trying to control you. But you need to accept that your world is no longer safe.”
I swallowed hard, my fingers curling against the desk edge.
She was right. And I hated that she was.
"I’ll be careful, and I'll lay low. But I don't want any extra guards. Isolde has to live a normal life, I won't let anyone take away her freedom."
- Writer
