REVENGEOUS

THE CONFIDENTIAL TIP ~VIVIENNE'S POV~

The evening was quiet, the kind of stillness that wraps around you like a blanket, soft but suffocating. I was sitting in my penthouse apartment, the one I kept under a false name to escape the prying eyes of the world that knew me as Vivienne Stinson, daughter of a billionaire dynasty. The city lights glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a constellation of artificial stars that reminded me of the life I’d built both the one I lived and the one I pretended to live. I was sipping a glass of pinot noir, letting the tartness linger on my tongue, when the doorbell rang.

I wasn’t expecting anyone. My real life didn’t involve unannounced visitors, and my fake one, the one where I was just a humble library clerk, didn't warrant them either. The sound jolted me from my reverie, a sharp intrusion into the carefully curated solitude I’d cultivated. Curious, I set the glass down on the sleek glass table, the faint clink echoing in the silence, and walked to the door. My bare feet padded silently against the cool marble floor, the sensation grounding me as my pulse quickened with an inexplicable unease.

Through the peephole, I saw nothing but the empty hallway, its dim lights casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to dance in the corners of my vision. I hesitated, my hand resting on the doorknob, a flicker of paranoia whispering that something was wrong. But curiosity won out, as it always did. I turned the lock and opened the door, the hinges creaking faintly in the stillness. There was no one there just a small, plain envelope lying on the welcome mat, its edges slightly creased as if it had been handled carelessly.

I bent down and picked it up, my fingers brushing against the rough paper. It was unassuming, almost mundane, yet it carried a weight I couldn’t explain. There was no name, no address, just a faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to it, sharp and acrid against the sterile air of my apartment. I closed the door, locking it with a decisive click, and carried the envelope back to the living room. My heart thudded in my chest, a rhythm I couldn’t quite explain, growing louder as I stood beneath the soft glow of the chandelier.

I tore it open with trembling fingers, and a single sheet of paper slipped out, the handwriting jagged and unfamiliar, scrawled in black ink that seemed to bleed into the page.

*The Grand Meridian Hotel, Room 412. Donald Trap will be there tonight with another woman.*

That was it. No signature, no explanation, just those stark, accusing words staring up at me like an accusation carved in stone. I read them again, then a third time, as if repetition could change their meaning, could erase the cold dread pooling in my stomach. Donald my Donald, the stockbroker I’d met at the library, the man who thought I was a simple, hardworking girl with no past worth mentioning was cheating on me. The thought hit me like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath, leaving me gasping in the silence of my own home.

We’d been together for months, a slow, deliberate relationship built on conversations and shared silences, not physical intimacy. I’d wanted it that way, needed it that way, to protect myself from another heartbreak, to test him, to see if he was worth revealing my true self to. I’d constructed this façade so carefully Vivienne, the library clerk with a modest apartment and a quiet life, not Vivienne Stinson, heiress to a fortune that could buy entire cities. And now this. The betrayal wasn’t just personal; it was a violation of the trust I’d so cautiously extended, a crack in the foundation I’d built to shield myself from the world.

I crumpled the note in my hand, the paper crinkling under my grip as anger surged through me, hot and unrelenting. How dare he? How dare he betray me when I’d given him so much of myself not my body, perhaps, but my time, my trust, my carefully curated lies? I stood there, trembling, the wine glass forgotten on the table, its contents shimmering faintly in the light. The room felt too small, the walls closing in, the air thick with the weight of my own fury.

Then, as quickly as the anger came, it shifted into something else: determination. I wasn’t going to sit here and wallow, wasn’t going to let this betrayal fester in the shadows. I was going to confront him, to see it with my own eyes, to end this charade once and for all. The decision crystallized in my mind, sharp and firm, propelling me into action.

I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t change out of the dress. I was wearing a lilac chiffon gown with a long, flowing skirt and a deep slit that revealed one leg when I moved. It was too elegant for a library clerk, a remnant of my true self that I’d allowed to slip into this moment of solitude, but I didn’t care. The fabric rustled as I grabbed my purse from the chaise lounge, the sound a soft counterpoint to the storm raging inside me. I slipped on a pair of heels black, pointed-toe stilettos that clicked against the marble as I strode to the door and headed out into the night.

The Grand Meridian was across town, a sleek, modern hotel that catered to the wealthy and discreet. I knew it well, not because I’d stayed there, but because I’d overseen its construction years ago, a pet project I’d funded through one of my family’s shell companies before donating it to the city. The irony wasn’t lost on me: Donald, who thought I was a nobody, was betraying me in a place I’d essentially created. If he was there, he wasn’t just breaking my heart he was doing it in a space that screamed privilege, a place I could have bought with pocket change.

The drive was a blur. I gripped the steering wheel of my understated sedan, the one I used to maintain my cover, my knuckles white against the leather. The city streaked past in a haze of lights and shadows, the neon signs and street lamps blending into a kaleidoscope of color that mirrored the chaos in my mind. Questions raced through my head, each one sharper than the last. Who had sent the note? How did they know about Donald and me? And why did they care enough to tell me? The scent of cigarette smoke lingered in my memory, a clue I couldn’t place, but I didn’t have answers, and I didn’t need them. All I needed was to see the truth, to confront the man who’d dared to shatter the fragile trust I’d placed in him.

When I reached the hotel, I pulled into the underground garage, the tires squealing faintly against the polished concrete. I parked in a shadowed corner, away from the prying eyes of security cameras, and took the elevator to the lobby. The doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the Grand Meridian’s interior a study in understated luxury, all glass and steel, with marble floors that gleamed under the soft lighting. I kept my head high, my steps purposeful, as if I belonged there which, in a way, I did. The staff didn’t stop me as I crossed the lobby, their eyes sliding over me with the practiced indifference of those accustomed to wealth and power. I stepped into another elevator, pressing the button for the fourth floor, and watched as the doors closed with a whisper.

My reflection stared back at me in the mirrored walls, my face pale but composed, my dress shimmering under the fluorescent lights. The lilac chiffon clung to my frame, the slit revealing a flash of leg with each step, and I realized belatedly that I looked out of place too elegant, too refined for the role I’d been playing. But there was no time to change, no time to retreat into the safety of my disguise. I looked like a woman on a mission, and I was.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and I stepped into the hallway. It was quiet, the carpet muffling my footsteps as I scanned the room numbers. 408, 409, 410… I was close. My heart pounded louder with each step, a drumbeat of anticipation and dread that echoed in my ears. I reached 412, and my hand hesitated over the door, trembling slightly as I raised it to knock. Should I knock? Should I barge in? What would I say? The questions swirled in my mind, paralyzing me for a moment, but before I could decide, a sudden force yanked me sideways.

A strong, tattooed arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me into a dimly lit room with a swiftness that stole my breath. My scream was cut off by a hand clamping over my mouth, another covering my eyes, plunging me into darkness. Panic surged through me, hot and electric, as I struggled against the grip, my heels digging into the carpet, my hands clawing at the arm that held me. The door clicked shut behind us, the sound sharp and final, and a voice hissed in my ear, low and commanding.

“Hush!”

I froze, my breath ragged against the hand over my mouth, my chest heaving as I fought to regain control. The warmth of a body pressed against mine, half-naked and solid, the scent of musk and sweat filling my senses, overwhelming the faint trace of cigarette smoke that still lingered in my mind. His breath brushed my neck, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine, and I felt the gentle stroke of his skin against my back, a contrast to the roughness of his grip. My mind spun, trying to make sense of what was happening, to piece together the fragments of this chaotic moment. This wasn’t Donald. This was someone else, someone dangerous, someone who had mistaken me for another.

“Just be subtle,” he murmured, his voice rough but tinged with something softer, almost coaxing, as if he were trying to soothe me.

“As I go to fulfill my needs… I’ll pay you double.” His tongue grazed my ear, a fleeting, intimate touch that made my stomach lurch with a mix of revulsion and fear.

The words hit me like a slap, and with them came a flood of clarity. He thought I was someone else, a prostitute, perhaps, someone he’d called to this room to satisfy whatever desires drove him. The realization was both humiliating and terrifying, a stark reminder of how far I’d strayed from the safety of my carefully constructed life. I had to stop this, had to get out, before it went too far. If I didn’t, we’d both be left with nothing but regret, a moment of misunderstanding that could ruin us both. But even as I struggled to find my voice, to break free from his grip, another thought pierced through the chaos, sharp and insistent: Where was Donald?