Chapter 3
The tension in the studio was a palpable, living thing. Viviana turned her head slightly, acknowledging the adult nanny who had been waiting anxiously in the hallway, flanked by two towering, broad-shouldered white American bodyguards in dark suits.
"Take him," Viviana instructed the nanny, her voice returning to its low, controlled cadence.
She gently placed Oliver into the nanny’s waiting arms beside the doorway. The little boy sniffled, holding his hands out for his mother, but the nanny quickly stepped back behind the protective wall of the bodyguards, shielding the child from the fallout.
Rosalind, realizing the power dynamic was shifting dangerously against her son, stepped forward. Her heels clicked loudly against the floor. She placed Oliver’s untouched dinner plate onto the edge of the worktable with a dismissive, arrogant clatter.
"You are overreacting, Viviana," Rosalind stated, lifting her chin defensively, her pearl earrings shaking. "Damon is merely trying to instill some discipline in the boy. You coddle him too much. A son should obey his father."
"A father protects his son," Viviana replied, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "He does not use him as a weapon for his own pathetic insecurities."
Damon’s fair, rosy face flushed with a sudden, volatile anger. The humiliation of being dressed down by his wife in front of the bodyguards shattered his fragile ego. He stepped forward, his leather shoes scraping aggressively against the floorboards.
"Do not speak to my mother that way," Damon barked, his voice loud and erratic, contrasting entirely with Viviana's lethal calm. "And do not disrespect me in my own house!"
Damon reached out, grabbing Viviana roughly by the sleeve of her tailored jacket, and aggressively raised his fist.
Viviana did not flinch. She did not scream. As Damon swung his fist downward, aiming to strike her face, Viviana moved with the terrifying, practiced efficiency of a woman who had fought for her empire. She slipped seamlessly outside his descending arm, dodging the blow entirely.
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Using his own forward momentum against him, Viviana stepped into his guard and drove a short, explosive elbow directly into his jaw.
The sharp crack of bone echoed in the bright room. Damon groaned in sudden agony. He staggered violently backward, his arms flailing as he crashed into the rolling stool. The stool shot out from beneath his weight, sliding across the floor and slamming into the stacked empty picture frames. The frames tipped sideways, clattering onto the floorboards in a chaotic cascade of wood. Damon fell backward, dropping hard against the edge of the padded bench. There was no dialogue—only the sound of Damon gasping for air.
