Page 58

Vivienne

“You know, I st ill can’t seem to shake it off.” Vivienne’s grip tightens around the strap of her backpack, her steps slow as they walk down the hall.

“Shake off what?” Kenji’s eyes never stray from his phone’s screen. They are about to make an arc down another hall, a little inch closer and he will bump his head into the wall.

Vivienne exhales a sigh, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him closer to her side. His head snaps up, eyes scanning the surroundings for threats before the realization dawns.

“Oh, shit!” He exhales, shoulders relaxing. “Thanks, man.”

Vivienne rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I said I can’t shake off the idea of being tracked somehow.” Her expression hardens as she spots Mr. Fadden slide into the classroom ahead—the same class she is currently heading.

“Well, It’s not your phone. I already checked.” Kenji finely pockets his device as they reach the classroom. “We should look into something else.”

The classroom is already packed, and the usual pre-lesson chatter is reduced to murmurs with Mr. Fadden already at the front of the class.

“Settle down, class.” His voice slices through the air as Vivienne and Kenji take their seats.

“So what do you think could have a tracker other than my phone?” Vivienne asks, her voice low as she subtly turns her head toward Kenji behind her.

“Earrings,” he murmurs. “But you don’t have a permanent one you wear other than your nose ring, and you can’t hide a tracker on the type you have on, so that leaves us with one more option…”

“And that is…?”

Kenji leans back, smirking. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Well, what is it?” She glares at him, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Rolling his eyes, he reaches beneath his collar and pulls out his gold chain. “This.”

Her brows knit, and two heartbeats later, her eyes widens. She clutches the pendant of her necklace, turning it over in her fingers.

“Oh, my god.”

How did she not figure this out sooner? Zev gave this to her. Of course, only him will be capable of such a thing. Only he can go this far to prove a point. So gifting her the necklace wasn’t his attempt at a romantic gesture?

“I feel so dumb for not connecting the dots sooner,” she whispers, clutching the pendant, wishing it to shatter beneath the weight of her fingers.

“Any problem, Vivienne Marchand?” Mr. Fadden’s voice slices through her thoughts.

The way he says her name makes her stomach churn. “No, Mr. Fadden.” She shakes her head.

Her gaze returns to the necklace. She has seen it in movies—trackers being put in jewelry and even hairpins. If there is truly a tracker in her necklace, it wouldn’t be too surprising.

But why did he put a tracker on her? Shouldn’t this be illegal in some big book of law?

“Marchand?!” Mr. Fadden’s voice cracks like a whip, his sinister undertone unmistakable. Startled, Vivienne realizes the entire class is staring at her.

“Um, yes?”

“You don’t seem very present,” he says, a smirk ghosting his lips. “Is my class too boring for you?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps, you’d care to help us out?” He gestures toward the board.

Her eyes follow, landing on the topic scrawled across the whiteboard. Confusion tightens in her chest. That’s not in the curriculum. It’s not even high school material.

“Can you define psychopathy?” He raises a brow, arms folded. “No one seems to have an answer. And given your particular interest, I assume you’d be the one to help us.”

A chill prickles down her spine.

“But this isn’t in the syllabus,” she argues. “It’s an advanced topic—”

“I am the teacher here, Vivienne Marchand.” His jaw twitches, his irritation barely masked.

“Of course,” she murmurs under her breath. “My apologies.”

“Well?” he prompts when she still doesn’t answer.

The weight of the stares from her classmates makes her pulse hammer in her ears. She knows the answer. But why is she so afraid to say it?

“Anytime soon, perhaps?” He urges.

Vivienne clears her throat and begins in one breath.

“Well, according to the National Library of Medicine, the act of psychopathy is a neuropsychiatric disorder marked by deficient emotional responses, lack of empathy, and poor behavioral controls, commonly resulting in persistent antisocial deviance and criminal behavior.”

Silence.

Then—

“ Well, perfect.” His smirk is anything but reassuring. “Class, let’s give it to Marchand.”

A hesitant wave of claps ripple through the room. Mr. Fadden turns back to the board, scrawling Types of Psychopathy in large, looming letters.

Vivienne can’t shake the unease pooling in her stomach.

“Psychopaths live among us.” His voice slithers into her ears, dragging her back. “They act like us, look normal like us. They mirror everything we do, fitting perfectly in that no matter what they do, we can never learn of their true nature.”

Isadora has told Vivienne this multiple times. That Clement Baudin’s love was all a lie. That he had only ever mirrored humanity.

‘Your father used me’ she would often say, ‘and she used you too.’

“In 2002, a college professor at a university in France, was arrested and sentenced to life in prison for being behind the multiple murders of young men and women, including his students.”

The world around Vivienne grinds to a halt.

Murmurs ripple through the class. A hand squeezes her shoulder gently, grounding her, but her breath is shallow, her skin clammy.

He knows.

She was right all along. He knows something.

He knows her father, he knows her. His mission is to taunt her. That’s why he came back.

Sweat prickles along her spine. Even clothed, she feels exposed and seen.

She has spent years hiding, blending in. And somehow, she has been so lucky that she avoided suspicion. And she is finally so close, just months away from disappearing from high school and going far away. But he is about to ruin it.

If her schoolmates find out, she is doomed.

“He had a wife and nine-year-old daughter,” Mr Fadden continues, voice low, deliberate. “He lived like a normal man. Goes to work, plays with his daughter, and acts the role of a loving husband worthy of an Oscar. And all the while, he was slitting throats in the shadows.”

The words slam into Vivienne like a wrecking ball.

She is going to be sick.

She hears a chair scrape against the floor. Then there is a sudden shadow beside her. Before she can acknowledge the person, a hand has grabbed her wrist.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” the person says. And like a robot dutifully following a command, Vivienne rises without question and allows the person to drag her out of the room.

“Let me come with you,” Kenji insists, grabbing Vivienne’s hand, making her halt.

Placing her hand gently over his that is wrapped around her forearm, she tugs his hand off. “I can handle this.”

“Vee.” Kenji’s protest falls on deaf ears as with a breath in, Vivienne pushes open the door to Mr. Fadden’s class, a mission in mind.

He got her earlier—back at the classroom. Oh, he got her so good. Almost pushed her into panicking and revealing her cover. But this is the power he has over her. He knows her dark little secret, and if she continues to tiptoe around him, he will turn her into a puppet.

There must be something he wants if he hasn’t blurted it out yet. Hell, every man wants something. And Vivienne has become curious about what could be the desires of James Fadden.

“Marchand?” He plays at surprise. But his delivery falls flat. He will never make it in Hollywood.

“Surprise to see you here.” Swinging his feet off the table, he grabs the coffee mug with one hand, the other slipping into his pocket as he strides forward.

“Saw how you uh…” He raises a half shoulder in a shrug, his tone easy, amused.

“Walked off with your friend during my, must I add, very interesting class, earlier. What was that about?”

“My bad.” Vivienne folds her arms across her chest, her back against the door, anxiety buried at the darkest corner of her mind.

“So…” He tilts his head to the side, but the seemingly welcoming smile doesn’t touch his eyes that is nothing but a canvas of mischief. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“Aren’t you tired of the act, Mr. Fadden?” She raises a brow. “Especially when you are not so good at it?”

Mr. Fadden chuckles drily. “I’m lost here, Marchand. Is there something I’m missing?”

“You have a personal grudge against Clement Baudin.” His jaw clenches, anger flashing in his eyes.

Bullseye.

Vivienne tilts her head, eyes gleaming with mock curiosity. “Who was it? Your sister? Your mom? Oh, wait, your girlfriend?” She snaps her fingers, a grin touching her lips.

Something shifts in James’s expression. His eyes darken, grip tightening around his mug. She just cracked something open. It was reckless, a gamble, but it worked.

“I figured you had something you wanna talk to me about.” She pushes off the door, crossing the room and stopping just a foot from him. “I’m tired of all the games and sneaking around. Tell me, what do you want? Why have you been lurking around, watching me like—”

James moves.

Fast. Closing the space between them.

Fear slithers down her spine.

He is tall—really taller than her. But nothing compared to Zev—Lucan.

He grips her jaw, fingers digging into her skin, smudging her carefully applied makeup.

“What your father did is unforgivable, Juliette Baudin.” His voice drips with venom.

Her pulse spikes, but she arches a brow, feigning nonchalance. “So what? Gonna kill me?”

He might as well do it and do it now. Nothing is more dangerous and irrational than a man on the quest for vengeance.

To her question, James’s lips curl, menacing. “Maybe.”

Then his smirk shifts— sinister, suggestive. “But where’s the fun in that?”

His free hand lifts, finger brushing her lips. She recoils, disgust curling in her stomach.

“Nothing will be more satisfying than making this such a huge mess,” he muses. “Imagine the headlines, your pretty face plastered everywhere. I could write an article about it. The Hidden Daughter of Clement Baudin. What do you think? Sounds catchy, doesn’t it?”

Vivienne gulps, flicking her gaze toward the door. Now this is the time for Kenji to come in.

James’s fingers trail down, settling on her collarbone. “But I don’t think you want that kind of fame, do you?”

Her skin crawls.

“Get your hands off me,” she hisses. “Or you’ll regret it.”

James chuckles. “Regret? Even if I killed you right here, I won’t lose a night of sleep.”

His finger dips beneath her collar, just inches away from the valley of her breast. Her stomach churns.

Then his gaze drops to her lips, lingering.

“But.” A pause, deep with unspoken intent. “I have a proposal. One that you might really like since, uh...” He fiddles with the tendril of her hair. “You really like doing teachers, you know?”

His smirk deepens. “So…what do you say about keeping my cock busy in exchange for keeping your secret?”

There it is.