My head throbbed like a K-pop concert in a tin can.
Thompson's "proposition" clearly involved a one-way ticket to blackout city.
But hey, at least I didn't wake up buried alive...
*yet*.
Time to put on my acting pants.
Method acting, baby!
I needed to look pathetic, vulnerable, and utterly harmless.
Think Bambi meets Marilyn Monroe after a bottle of Chardonnay.
First, the wardrobe.
I dug out the shortest, sparkliest dress I could find – something that screamed "trophy wife on the verge of a spectacular meltdown." Then, the makeup: smudged eyeliner, slightly smeared lipstick, the whole "I've been crying all night" look.
Oscar-worthy, if I do say so myself.
Time to unleash my inner drama queen.
I teetered out of my room, a vision in glitter and fake tears, and headed in the general direction of what *had* to be the secret study.
The floor felt like a trampoline, and my Louboutins were definitely plotting against me.
"Ugh, where *is* everyone?" I mumbled, loud enough for any lurking ears to hear.
"I just need... a little lie down."
Rounding a corner, I spotted Tom, the perpetually constipated-looking butler.
Perfect.
"Tom, darling!" I slurred, batting my eyelashes for all they were worth.
"Could you... point me to a quiet place? I feel ever so faint."
Tom's face remained a masterpiece of disapproval.
"Madam, you should return to your room. You've clearly had too much to drink."
"Oh, pooh," I said, channeling my inner socialite.
"Just a *little* bit tipsy. And my room is so... lonely. I just want to... rest my weary head somewhere... comfortable." I leaned in close, giving him my best puppy-dog eyes.
"Pretty please, Tom? For me?"
He visibly recoiled.
"Absolutely not, madam. I suggest you retire immediately."
Rude.
But expected.
Time for Plan B: the artful dodge.
I feigned a sudden wave of dizziness.
"Oh dear, I think I'm going to..." I swayed dramatically, nearly colliding with a priceless Ming vase.
Tom, predictably, lunged to save the vase.
"Madam, be careful!"
"Oopsie," I giggled, using his distraction to stumble past him and down the hallway leading toward the study.
"Thanks, Tom! You're a lifesaver!"
Behind me, I could practically feel Tom's glare burning a hole in my sequined backside.
*Ms.
Jenkins watched from the shadows, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her palms.
The girl was playing a dangerous game, and Jenkins was more than ready to end it.
The audacity!
The sheer *vulgarity*!
To parade around like that, flaunting herself...
It was an insult to everything she held dear.
Thompson seemed amused by Vivian's antics, but Jenkins knew better.
This little performance was a calculated move, and Jenkins would be damned if she let it succeed.
*
Dodging patrolling guards was like playing a real-life version of *Metal Gear Solid*, except with more cleavage and less tactical gear.
I stuck to the shadows, using pillars and potted plants as cover.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
There it was.
The door.
The infamous secret study.
My hands trembled as I reached for the handle.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows.
Zhuang Yu.
*Crap.
*
He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with those unnervingly perceptive eyes.
He looked like a goddamn Greek statue carved from granite, all sharp angles and controlled power.
I froze, my mind racing.
I needed a distraction, and I needed it now.
Taking a deep breath, I launched myself forward, feigning a spectacular stumble.
"Ouch!" I cried, clutching my ankle.
"Oh, my God, I think I twisted it!"
Zhuang Yu's expression didn't change.
He remained motionless, a silent judge.
*Damn him and his stoicism!
*
"Are you alright, Ms. Vivian?" he asked, his voice low and even.
"No, I'm not alright!" I wailed, laying it on thick.
"My ankle! It's killing me! I think I need help." I looked up at him, my eyes wide and pleading.
"Please, Mr. Zhuang? Can you help me?"
He hesitated, his gaze flickering over my face.
I could practically see the gears turning in his head, calculating, analyzing.
This was my chance.
With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I pushed myself up, ignoring the (totally fake) pain in my ankle, and sprinted toward the study door.
*Zhuang Yu watched her go, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
He knew she was faking it.
He'd seen enough injuries in his life to recognize a charade.
But why?
What was she up to?
The woman he'd known – or thought he'd known – before was vapid and predictable.
This new Vivian was something else entirely.
Intriguing.
Dangerous.
And he found himself drawn to her, despite his better judgment.
*
My fingers brushed against the cold metal of the doorknob.
Yes!
I was almost there!
Suddenly, a red light flashed above the door.
A piercing alarm blared through the hallway, shattering the silence.
My blood ran cold.
*Shit.*
The alarm panel next to the door began to blink furiously, demanding a code.
The darkness slammed into Vivian like a tidal wave.
*Poisoned?
Drugged?
* The thought clawed its way through the swirling chaos in her mind just before oblivion.
Mr.
Thompson's smile, a predatory curve in the firelight, was the last thing she registered.
Then, nothing.
When Vivian finally surfaced, a throbbing headache was her unwelcome companion.
She lay on a plush chaise lounge, the scent of expensive lilies thick in the air.
Sunlight streamed through a sheer curtain, painting stripes across the opulent room.
Ms.
Jenkins, her face a mask of saccharine concern, hovered nearby.
"Oh, Vivian, darling! You gave us such a fright! You simply fainted." Ms.
Jenkins' voice dripped with false sympathy.
"Perhaps you're not used to such rich… surroundings."
Vivian forced a weak smile.
*Playing the damsel.
Got it.
* "I must have overdone it at lunch," she murmured, pressing a hand to her temple.
"So embarrassing."
Ms.
Jenkins' eyes narrowed, but she maintained her facade.
"Nonsense, dear. Just rest. Mr. Thompson was so worried."
*Worried he'd killed me before I signed the papers, more like it,* Vivian thought, a cold fury simmering beneath her carefully constructed fragility.
The 90-day clock was ticking, and she'd just wasted precious hours.
Later that day, fueled by black coffee and sheer willpower, Vivian decided to put her plan back in motion.
The key to unraveling the Thompsons' secrets, she was certain, lay in Mr.
Thompson's private study – the one Tom, the ever-present, stone-faced butler, guarded like a fortress.
She started subtly.
Complimenting Tom on the gleaming silverware.
Asking about the rare orchids in the conservatory.
Small, seemingly innocuous gestures designed to lower his guard.
Tom remained impassive, a granite wall against her charm.
Then, inspiration struck.
That evening, a torrential downpour lashed against the mansion.
The power flickered, plunging the house into near darkness.
Vivian seized her opportunity.
Feigning distress, she sought out Tom.
"Tom, I'm terrified of storms!" she cried, her voice trembling just the right amount.
"Could you possibly check the windows in the west wing? I heard a branch break, and I'm afraid it might shatter the glass."
Tom hesitated.
The west wing was far from Mr.
Thompson's study.
But Vivian's apparent fear, the vulnerability she projected so convincingly, seemed to sway him.
"Very well, Miss Vivian," he said stiffly.
"Wait here."
As soon as he disappeared down the hallway, Vivian moved.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she crept towards the study.
The door was locked, as expected.
But Vivian had anticipated this.
Recalling a fragmented memory from the real Vivian, she remembered a loose stone in the hallway fireplace.
Behind it, a small, antique skeleton key.
Her fingers fumbled with the stone, adrenaline coursing through her veins.
*Come on, come on…* Finally, the stone gave way.
She retrieved the key, her hand shaking.
The key slid into the lock with a satisfying *click*.
She pushed the door open a crack and slipped inside.
The study was a sanctuary of dark wood and leather, lined with towering bookshelves.
A massive desk dominated the center of the room, papers scattered across its surface.
This was it.
The heart of the Thompson empire.
She began to search, her movements swift and precise.
Drawers yielded nothing but mundane documents.
The bookshelves held first editions and leather-bound journals, but nothing that screamed "criminal conspiracy."
Then, she saw it.
A small, almost invisible safe hidden behind a painting of a stormy seascape.
*Jackpot.
*
But as she reached for the painting, a voice cut through the silence.
"Looking for something, Vivian?"
Zhuang Yu stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes.
He hadn't been fooled by her act.
And behind him, framed in the doorway, stood Mr.
Thompson.
His face was a mask of cold fury.
"I knew I couldn't trust you," he growled.
Vivian froze.
She was trapped.
And the clock was still ticking.