Vivian’s Covenant Chapter 2

The following morning, I arrived at the ground-floor lobby of Sterling Tower precisely at nine.

After six centuries, routine was second nature. Empires rose and collapsed, yet I still enjoyed watching the morning sun break over Manhattan. The crown jewel of Sterling Tower—the penthouse terrace overlooking Central Park—had always offered the finest light.

I walked toward the private executive elevator and swiped my encrypted keycard.

The reader flashed red. Two sharp beeps chimed through the brass enclosure: Access Denied.

I raised an eyebrow.

Nearby, a public elevator opened, and several junior analysts stepped out. Recognizing me, they ducked their heads and began whispering behind their lanyards.

"Isn't that Ms. Vance from the penthouse suite?"

"Heard Julian cut her off completely last night."

"They pulled her executive clearance, and she still showed up? Shameless."

Ignoring them, I walked over to the reception desk.

The young receptionist blanched the moment our eyes met, shifting her gaze away guiltily. "Ms. Vance... Ms. Montgomery ordered your private elevator clearance revoked first thing this morning."

I nodded gently. "And the public elevators?"

"Those... those are still open to the public floors, ma'am."

"Thank you."

I stepped into an open service elevator and rode it straight to the top.

The doors slid open on the fiftieth floor to the sound of crashing porcelain and frantic scraping. Several facilities workers were hauling my potted winter orchids out into the hallway. Near the entrance, my favorite seventeenth-century antique tea set sat tossed into an open cardboard box—its hand-carved porcelain lid chipped at the rim.

Chloe Montgomery stood in the center of my former private office, barking orders.

"Toss all this antique garbage into the compactor. The place smells like a musty museum. Replace it with an imported Italian leather sectional and bring in an ebony executive desk by noon."

She turned around and spotted me standing by the threshold. Her lips instantly twisted into an exaggerated, mocking pout.

"My goodness, Vivian! What are you still doing here?" She clicked across the marble floor in her Christian Louboutins, her eyes gleaming with malice. "I do apologize for the mess. Julian mentioned that my previous office was entirely too modest for the Chief Strategy Officer. Seeing as your penthouse suite was sitting empty doing nothing, I took the initiative to requisition it."

I looked down at the chipped porcelain lid on the floor. It had been crafted by a master artisan in Europe over three hundred years ago. It held little financial consequence to me, but I had grown fond of using it.

"Pained by your little trinkets?" Chloe followed my gaze, dripping with theatrical pity. "Just obsolete junk, really. If you're genuinely that attached to it, I'll Venmo you twenty bucks so you can take it down to a thrift store."

Just then, Julian stepped out of the private corridor accompanied by three senior associates. Seeing the standoff, he offered a mild scowl.

"What's going on here?"

Chloe’s arrogance instantly melted into vulnerable distress as she glided to his side. "Julian, I was only trying to prepare a proper workspace for our European partners, but Ms. Vance seems upset. She doesn't even handle corporate business—leaving this entire floor to her is an absolute waste of firm resources."

Julian patted her hand reassuringly, then looked at me, his jaw set in cold annoyance.

"It's just an office, Vivian," he said, his tone clipped. "Chloe is spearheading our international expansion next year. She requires an appropriate venue to entertain sovereign wealth funds." He paused, his expression hardening. "As for you, if you aren't comfortable hot-desking on the trading floor, there's a vacant storage room by the second-floor stairwell. Have facilities clear out the file boxes, and you can sit there."

Behind him, two associates barely choked back their laughter.

Banishing a woman who had drawn sixty percent of the firm’s dividends to a windowless basement utility closet was a deliberate, calculated humiliation.

I looked straight at Julian. There was no remorse in his eyes—only the impatient hunger of a predator eager to shed an obsolete burden.

"You want me in a second-floor utility closet?" I asked, my voice calm.

Unsettled by my stillness, Julian squared his shoulders. "This is purely business, Vivian. Sterling Enterprises does not carry deadweight. If you feel slighted, you are free to tender your formal resignation. Naturally, out of respect for our shared past, I'll instruct payroll to cut you a standard severance check."

I nodded slowly.

"Very well."

Without another word, I stepped over the shattered porcelain at my feet and walked back toward the elevator bank.

Behind me, Chloe’s triumphant laughter echoed through the marble hallway.

"At least she knows when she's beaten."