Vivian’s Covenant Chapter 1

I am an immortal vampire.

Six centuries ago, to conceal my existence among mortals, I bestowed my fortune in gold upon my servant, elevating him to the wealthiest merchant in the realm. In exchange, he and his bloodline swore an eternal covenant: to serve me without question and to deliver my tribute of wealth each month.

Yet six hundred years later, his twelfth-generation descendant broke the oath.

Flanked by his fiancée, he stood before me and tore the contract to shreds.

"Ms. Vance, Julian is the chief executive of a multi-billion-dollar enterprise. He works around the clock," Chloe Montgomery said, her voice dripping with disdain. "While you do nothing but vacation and shop. What makes you think you're entitled to sixty percent of this company's net profits?"

Julian Sterling looked at me and let out a weary sigh.

"Times have changed, Vivian," he said smoothly. "In the modern world, capital belongs to those who generate value."

I nodded slowly, setting down my untouched glass of wine.

Times had indeed changed. It seemed my gold was never coming back.

In that case, I would simply take back the land beneath Sterling Tower.

"So the Sterling family intends to unilaterally breach our covenant?"

I withdrew a linen napkin from the table and meticulously dabbed at a faint droplet of red wine on my fingertip.

Chloe scoffed at my reaction. She tossed her styled blonde curls over her shoulder and looked down at me from behind the gala's VIP table.

"Get one thing straight, Ms. Vance. This isn't a breach of contract," she said, tapping her French-manicured nails against the mahogany. "This is corporate restructuring. We are simply excising deadweight and eliminating useless sunk costs."

With a flick of her wrist, she slapped a freshly printed legal agreement onto the tablecloth in front of me.

"Frankly, I have no idea how you managed to leach off this firm for so long. You hold no executive title. You generate zero revenue. Why on earth did Julian’s father wire sixty percent of our monthly dividend yield directly into your private trust? Because of some archaic family superstition? It's absurd."

The moment the words left her mouth, several senior vice presidents seated around the table leaned in, murmuring in agreement.

I knew exactly what puzzled them.

Six centuries had passed; my true nature had long faded into myth. None of them knew of the original transaction, nor did they realize that every existential crisis Sterling Enterprises had faced over the decades had been quietly erased by my hand.

To them, I was merely Vivian Vance—a shadowy socialite bound to the family by a centuries-old tradition that dictated unconditional deference to my name.

"She's right," one executive whispered. "We kill ourselves sixty hours a week, and she pulls nine figures while lounging in the Hamptons."

"Julian just closed that five-billion-dollar cross-border AI partnership," another chimed in. "He's the sole architect of this empire."

I ignored the background noise and cast my gaze over the new document.

Under the distribution clause, my sixty-percent profit entitlement had been slashed to one-tenth of one percent. Below that, an added stipulation demanded that I irrevocably surrender all proprietary executive privileges and hidden voting rights tied to Sterling Enterprises.

I lifted my chin, locking eyes with Julian, who had remained silent while swirling an amber scotch in his crystal tumbler.

"Is this your doing?" I asked.

Julian finally looked up. His eyes held the cold, condescending pity unique to young men blinded by early success.

"Chloe’s delivery may be blunt, Vivian, but the core premise is sound," he said, setting his glass down with an arrogant sense of finality. "To close that five-billion-dollar deal, my team and I worked ourselves ragged for a month straight. Meanwhile, you spend your afternoons tending orchids in the penthouse conservatory and sipping tea."

Julian leaned back into his leather chair, crossing one tailored leg over the other.

"I am not my father. I don't answer to ghost stories or medieval loyalty pledges. Times have changed. Only those who produce results get a seat at the table."

I looked at his youthful, ambitious face. For a fleeting second, another face overlapped with his—raw, blistered with frostbite, weeping in the bitter snows of a winter six hundred years ago.

In the courtyard of an ancient stone estate, a starving beggar named Barnaby Sterling had fallen to his knees, clutching my velvet pouch of gold coins to his chest.

My Lady, thank you for this mercy, he had sobbed. You took a wretch doomed to freeze in the mud and made him a master of coin. In return, I and every son born of my line shall serve you without condition, laying our wealth at your feet until the end of days.

I had never needed money; I merely required a human identity to walk unnoticed among mortal society. Barnaby needed bread and power; I needed camouflage. It had been an agreeable arrangement.

Throughout the centuries, I opened doors, smoothed over regulatory ruin, and funneled sovereign connections into their lap, ensuring the Sterling empire flourished with unnatural ease.

Yet six hundred years later, his bloodline genuinely believed they had built this empire with their bare hands.

Especially this crowning jewel of theirs—the five-billion-dollar AI enterprise deal.

"Are you deaf?" Chloe snapped, rapping her knuckles against the polished table. "Julian was generous enough to leave you a fraction of a percent. That's still a couple million a year—plenty for a woman with no marketable skills to live comfortably in early retirement. Sign the paperwork, and let's end this with some dignity."

I picked up the Montblanc pen from the table, spun it lazily between my fingers, and let it drop with a sharp clatter.

"And if I refuse?"

Chloe froze, caught off guard by my flat indifference. Her practiced corporate smile vanished entirely.

"Vivian, are you out of your mind?" Her voice rose an octave, drawing the attention of the surrounding tables. "Do you honestly think you have leverage? With one call from Julian, our finance department will freeze every single transfer to your account by sunrise."

Watching her flush with frantic venom was almost tedious.

"Then freeze them," I said mildly.

Fools. The wealth I had granted Barnaby Sterling was merely my surplus liquid coin. My actual foundations—the sovereign land deeds, centuries of real estate, antique vaults, and diversified trusts—yielded returns beyond their comprehension. The allowance Sterling Enterprises wired me every month was little more than pocket change.

I rose from the table, done indulging an insolent socialite.

"I will not sign," I said, meeting Julian’s eyes. "Since you are so thoroughly convinced that five-billion-dollar triumph belongs entirely to your genius, let us see if it survives without me."

I turned and walked toward the grand doors of the ballroom.

Behind me, Chloe’s shrill laughter echoed across the hall.

"Who does she think she is? Don't tell me she's taking credit for the AI merger! A decorative parasite who spends her life tanning on the roof wouldn't know the first thing about venture capital!"