The jet cut through the clouds with a steady hum, leaving behind the fractured ruins of Ivy's last stand.
Vivienne sat by the window, her fingers loosely curled around a half-filled tumbler of aged whiskey. Her reflection in the glass seemed foreign, like a stranger shaped by war. Her eyes, once soft and uncertain, now burned with quiet power. Ivy had been arrested, the Nemesis incapacitated, and Nikolai Volkov forced into hiding after his network was exposed.
But Vivienne knew the battle was not truly over — only shifted to a new arena.
Behind her, Mira was typing furiously on her laptop, linking new intel gathered from the raid on Nemesis. Rhys stood at the back of the cabin, phone pressed to his ear, exchanging curt, hushed words with someone from the Rothsford legal team.
"Interpol confirmed," Mira finally said. "Volkov is wanted for cyber terrorism, human trafficking, and illegal arms distribution. Ivy's arrest gives them leverage to pull in his entire network."
Vivienne nodded without turning. "Good. Make sure Ivy's cooperation is... encouraged."
Mira smirked. "Leave that to me."
Rhys hung up his call and stepped forward. "The board of Rothsford International is convening a private meeting tomorrow. They've officially acknowledged you as the biological heir."
"And the vote?" Vivienne asked, finally turning toward him.
"Still divided," he admitted. "But with Ivy gone and the evidence you've brought forward... it's in your favor. You'll need to be strategic. Some of the board still have loyalty to your parents."
Vivienne's expression tightened.
"My adoptive parents," she corrected. "And I owe them nothing."
---
Back in New York, the city pulsed with energy beneath a steel-gray sky. Rothsford Tower stood tall in the skyline — a pillar of power and legacy. For years, it had been the symbol of a dynasty Vivienne had been discarded from.
Now, it was hers to reclaim.
As the car pulled up to the private entrance, the crowd of reporters outside surged forward, flashes from cameras lighting up the sidewalk. Questions were screamed — about Ivy, the Nemesis, the board, the inheritance. Vivienne ignored them all, flanked by Mira and Rhys as she strode inside.
The boardroom was already packed.
Old men in custom suits. Two women in power dresses. Greying hair, suspicious eyes. At the head of the long obsidian table sat Bernard Elridge — acting chairman and long-time advisor to her adoptive father, Richard Rothsford.
"Vivienne," Bernard greeted with a forced smile. "Welcome back."
Vivienne didn't sit.
"I never left," she replied smoothly.
A few chuckles. A few narrowed eyes.
"We're here today," Bernard began, "to formally review the new evidence regarding Ms. Vivienne Rothsford's lineage and inheritance rights. As you all know, the recent developments have cast significant doubt on the legitimacy of Ivy Rothsford's claim to the family fortune and assets."
He gestured toward Vivienne. "Ms. Rothsford has submitted DNA records, financial disclosures, and legal testimony that suggests she was, in fact, the rightful heir — switched at birth, trained as the successor, and later disowned under false pretenses."
"Framed," Vivienne corrected, her voice clear and cutting.
Bernard nodded stiffly. "Indeed."
Another member, a thin man with sharp cheekbones, leaned forward. "Even if we accept that — what guarantees do we have that she's capable of leading Rothsford International? The world is watching. Investors are nervous. We need stability."
Vivienne stepped closer to the table.
"Stability is earned, not inherited," she said. "I built a global firm from nothing after you cast me out. I broke the shell you left me in. You want numbers?"
She clicked a remote. The screen behind her lit up with slides — quarterly profits from her venture CavernEdge, intelligence contracts she'd won over Ivy, partnerships secured in silence.
"I didn't inherit my power. I forged it. Alone."
A hush swept through the room.
One of the older women, Claire DeLancey, tapped her manicured nails against the table. "Ivy framed you. Your parents chose her over you. You have every reason to burn this place to the ground. Why come back?"
Vivienne's voice was low but powerful.
"Because this empire was always mine. And because I want to prove something."
She paused.
"That blood makes you born. But will makes you worthy."
---
The vote took an hour.
When Bernard stood again, his expression was unreadable.
"By majority decision," he said, "Vivienne Rothsford is reinstated as primary heir and majority shareholder. Effective immediately."
A few hands clapped. Others remained frozen in shock.
Vivienne simply nodded.
No smile. No celebration.
Just quiet, smoldering vindication.
---
After the meeting, she went to the highest floor — the private penthouse once belonging to Richard Rothsford. It had remained untouched since his "death in absentia." Now, it was hers.
As she walked through the grand space — filled with crystal chandeliers, imported art, and a skyline that stretched beyond imagination — she felt the weight of her journey settle over her shoulders.
This was never about furniture or titles.
It was about restoring what had been stolen — piece by painful piece.
In the bedroom, she found a dusty wooden box. Inside were old photos: a baby Vivienne in her mother's arms. Her father laughing beside them.
The smiles seemed real.
Her throat tightened.
How had it all gone so wrong?
---
That night, Rhys poured her a glass of wine on the penthouse balcony.
"You should feel proud," he said softly.
"I feel... hollow," Vivienne admitted.
He turned to her. "Because the war defined you. Now that it's over, you're wondering what's left."
She looked at him.
And for once, her mask cracked.
"I don't know how to live without vengeance," she whispered.
Rhys reached for her hand.
"Then maybe it's time you find something else to fight for."
---
Elsewhere, in a private, undisclosed location, Nikolai Volkov was watching the news.
Vivienne's face filled the screen, sharp and commanding as she gave a press statement.
"She's more dangerous than Ivy ever was," his associate muttered.
Volkov's lips curled.
"Then we adapt."
He leaned forward and pulled a sealed folder from his desk drawer.
It bore one word:
"ARES"
---