Let Them Talk

The thumping bass of the club filtered into the luxurious private room, rattling the crystal glasses on the low table. Declan’s elite circle of friends barely glanced at the stage outside before dismissing the absurd notion.

"Impossible. It can't be her," one friend scoffed, waving a hand. "If your wife had moves like that, she would have used them to seduce you ages ago. That girl out there has fire. Vivian is dull as dishwater."

Declan sat back in the plush leather sofa, agreeing with their assessment. He took a slow sip of his whiskey. Through the glass partition, the graceful dancer on stage did share a slender silhouette with Vivian. The way she moved had a strange, familiar elegance to it. But in his prejudiced mind, his wife was a woman full of calculated schemes. She was far too cautious, constantly obsessed with maintaining a pristine, dutiful image to ever dance so boldly in a public venue.

Still, the passing thought nagged at him. Declan stood up and stepped into a quieter corner of the room. He pulled out his phone and made a quick call to the Thorne manor.

"Is Vivian at home?" he asked, his tone flat.

"No, sir," the servant replied over the line. "She hasn't returned since she left yesterday morning."

Declan ended the call. A cold, cynical smile touched his lips. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. So, she was just wandering the streets. She was playing childish tricks to win his pity, trying to force him to look for her. It was a pathetic stunt.

He walked back and dropped into his seat. His friends were still mocking the four-year marriage he had just escaped.

A companion sitting across from him sneered, taking a deep drag of his cigar. Thick smoke billowed into the air. "You know, Declan, you should have just thrown a pile of money at Vivian after that initial, scandalous accident. It would have saved you years of headache."

The friend leaned forward, tapping ashes into a crystal tray. "She claimed it was an innocent mistake, but look what happened. She shamelessly manipulated the media to trap you into the union. She went straight to the reporters, acting the victim, forcing your hand. It was a trap from day one."

Another friend burst into laughter, patting Declan’s rigid back. "Let’s be honest, man. You probably can't even remember what your own wife looks like! You never go home."

The man wiped a tear of mirth from his eye, cruelly adding, "Think about it. Without the Thorne family's wealth and prestige, a woman like Vivian has nothing. She's boring. She's plain. She will only attract old, poor, ugly men who are desperate enough to take her."

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "That's all she's worth. Good riddance."

Declan simply drank in silence. His expression grew gloomy and unreadable as the mocking laughter echoed off the velvet walls of the private room. He didn't defend her. He let the cruel words hang in the air.

Just outside the heavy wooden door, the atmosphere was sharply different.

Bianca stood rigid in the hallway, her chest heaving. Her eyes were bloodshot with pure fury. Her fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles shone white under the dim corridor lights. She planted her feet, fully prepared to kick the heavy wooden door off its hinges and storm in to tear the arrogant men apart.

Vivian remained unshaken. She reached out, wrapping her hand around Bianca’s wrist and holding her friend back.

"Let go of me, Viv!" Bianca hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "You hear what those self-righteous bastards are saying? I am going to rip their tongues out!"

"We're already divorced," Vivian stated. Her voice was calm, devoid of the desperation that used to plague her. "Let them say what they want."

Bianca stared at her in shock. Before today, Vivian would have scrambled to defend herself. She would have desperately tried to correct the narrative, eager to prove her worth to Declan and his inner circle.

But standing in the neon-lit hallway, Vivian realized with profound clarity that she no longer needed to endure this soul-crushing humiliation. She didn't have to frantically defend her character just for the sake of maintaining a harmonious marriage. That fake marriage was over. Declan’s opinion meant nothing to her anymore.

Though Vivian was at peace, Bianca remained vibrating with rage. She let Vivian pull her down the corridor, but she vowed under her breath.

"I will make those arrogant men see exactly how outstanding you truly are," Bianca muttered, glaring back at the closed door. "I am going to show them exactly what kind of high-caliber man you actually deserve. They will eat those words."

The next day, the morning sun cast a crisp, bright light over the sprawling grounds of Thorne Manor.

Vivian arrived calmly to retrieve her remaining personal belongings. She didn't bother stepping inside the house that had been her prison for four years. Instead, she stood patiently outside the grand entrance, waiting for a servant to bring her things out.

Suddenly, the harsh roar of an engine shattered the morning quiet.

Declan’s sleek black car sped up the driveway, braking sharply near the front steps. He stepped out, sweeping an impatient, condescending glare over her. Seeing her standing by the door, his ego immediately assumed she had obediently returned. He figured she was defeated after her little stunt of not coming home last night failed to grab his attention.

He adjusted his suit jacket, his jaw tight. "Have you had enough of causing trouble?" he ordered coldly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Go in."

Vivian didn't flinch. She didn't lower her head or apologize like she used to. Instead, a slight, amused smile graced her lips.

"Mr. Thorne, it seems like your memory is failing you," she reminded him crisply, her chin held high. "We got divorced yesterday."

Declan frowned deeply. His annoyance peaked at her defiant tone. He crossed his arms, staring down his nose at her.

"Stop playing these games," he told her harshly. "When I offer you a convenient way out, you should take it. Don't continue to embarrass yourself with this fake pride. It won't work on me."

Before Vivian could even formulate a reply to his staggering arrogance, a loud, chaotic commotion erupted right behind them on the manicured driveway.

Horns honked loudly. Upbeat music blared from a convoy of brightly painted cars pulling up to the wrought-iron gates.

A massive, brightly colored banner was suddenly unfurled in the air by a group of cheering people. The bold letters declared in massive font: "Congratulations to Vivian for breaking free from suffering and divorcing successfully!"

Alongside the giant banner, several smaller, bobbing signs waved in the morning breeze. People chanted the words written on them: "Vivian, happy divorce!"

Vivian stood frozen, her lips parted in shock as she looked on.

From the center of the cheering crowd, a handsome, tall man with a striking presence stepped out. He wore a tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders. He strode confidently toward her, holding a massive, luxurious bouquet of deep red roses.

He stopped in front of her, handing the blooming flowers over with a charming, bright smile.

"Vivian, can you consider me now?" he asked, his voice smooth and clear over the crowd's noise.

Before she could process the surreal moment or form a reaction, the stunning man dropped to one knee. He looked up at her with eyes full of deep, unmistakable affection.

The cheering died down as his voice rang out clearly for all to hear.

"I can't promise the world," he vowed, his gaze locked onto hers, "but I swear to cherish every moment we spend together. I'll hold you in the palm of my hand, listen to you, make you smile, believe in you, stand by you, and never, ever let you feel alone."

Hearing this romantic, public declaration right on his own doorstep, Declan’s face instantly darkened into an expression of pure, thunderous fury.