CHAPTER 83: PROTECTION

The call ended, and for a long moment, the soft click of disconnection echoed in the quiet study.

Vivian Carter stared at the phone in her hand, thumb brushing absently across the polished edge as her mind spun in slow, deliberate circles.

Her Nicholas.

Her son.

She closed her eyes, leaning back against the cushions of her chair, allowing herself—just for a heartbeat—to feel the ache of it. The ache of loving a boy who’d grown up too fast, forced to become a man in a world filled with wolves dressed in tailored suits.

He had her softness, buried somewhere beneath that sharp jaw and colder tone. And yet he carried his father’s ruthlessness, sharpened by disappointment.

Vivian had spent her whole life balancing on that line—between armor and affection. She knew what it cost to live among predators. She’d played the dutiful wife, the perfect hostess, the silent ally. And when it came to Nicholas, she had been more: his advocate in the shadows, the mother who bandaged bruised knuckles and whispered fierce love into the dark spaces of his childhood.

But love didn’t make her foolish.

And when it came to protecting her son—even from his own mistakes—Vivian knew better than to rely on hope alone.

With a quiet breath, she reached over to the small stack of folders resting on the side table beside her. Crisp, thin paper. Discreet courier delivery. No logos, no seals, no trace.

Information was power.

And Vivian, for all her soft-spoken charm, had always been dangerously powerful when she needed to be.

She flipped open the first folder.

Ella Marquez.

Full name neatly typed at the top of the report, followed by a short but detailed dossier: age, background, family history—or the lack thereof. No powerful name behind her. No fortune. Just a woman who, on paper, didn’t belong in the Carter world.

A university transcript. Modest. Part-time jobs listed. Medical records. No arrests, no scandals.

Ordinary.

And yet—extraordinary

, apparently, to Nicholas.

Vivian’s lips pressed together as her eyes scanned lower.

Marriage Certificate.

Her heart skipped.

The copy of the license was crisp, signed in Las Vegas, of all ridiculous places. Two witnesses listed. Cheap, impromptu, rushed. No lavish ceremony. No Carter family announcement. No press.

It wasn’t the wedding of a Carter heir.

It was a wedding of desperation—or maybe rebellion. His rebellion.

Married. Already married.

A sharp laugh, bitter and small, slipped from her lips. "Jesus, Nicholas."

Not even a call beforehand. Not even a warning. He’d just—done it. Quietly. Fiercely. As if daring his family to stop him after the fact.

God, he had his father’s stubborn streak, but his recklessness... that was all her.

She wasn’t angry. Not really. No, anger was what her husband specialized in. Disappointment, disapproval, control.Vivian specialized in something else.

Calculation.

Slowly, she picked up her reading glasses from the side table, slipping them onto the bridge of her nose, and leaned over the second file.

Photographs.

Grainy ones—clearly pulled from someone’s phone. Ella walking out of a corner store, Ella seated in a tiny café reading a worn paperback, Ella laughing with someone unseen outside of frame.

Pretty. Ordinary. Soft.

Vivian frowned faintly. Not soft in the way socialites were soft. This wasn’t practiced poise. This was vulnerability worn openly on the skin, like the girl had never learned the art of hiding her heart properly.

That... was dangerous.

Not because of the girl herself—but because Nicholas, her son, had always been drawn to things he could protect.

Things that could be used against him.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Come in," she called, smoothing the papers flat again.

A discreet figure stepped into the room—her personal assistant, hired by her and only her. Private, trusted. The only one in this house who knew the full extent of Vivian’s careful watchfulness.

"I’ve followed up on your earlier request," the assistant murmured, holding out another file.

Vivian accepted it with graceful fingers. "Thank you."

"She doesn’t know," the woman added softly, tilting her head toward the folder. "About the weight of what’s coming. No media leaks yet, but..." She hesitated, then chose her next words carefully. "The father is furious."

Vivian’s lips curved faintly. "Of course he is."

Furious men were predictable. Furious men made mistakes.

It wasn’t the fury that worried Vivian—it was the inevitable games that would follow. Legal maneuvers, strategic leaks, social pressures applied like scalpels beneath the skin. And Ella? From what Vivian had read, that poor girl wouldn’t know how to swim in these waters.

But Nicholas... Nicholas wouldn’t abandon her.

That, Vivian realized with a pang of painful pride, was the Carter part of him she liked

. He was loyal, even to a fault.

Carefully, she closed the folders, removing her glasses with deliberate calm.

"Discreet surveillance only," she said softly. "I don’t want her frightened. And no leaks—not yet. Let’s see what our dear husband does first."

The assistant inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Of course."

As the door closed again, leaving Vivian alone with her thoughts, she stood and walked to the window, gazing out over the manicured gardens below.

Las Vegas marriages. Hidden wives. Media storms on the horizon. Nicholas had dropped a match into the dry grass of the Carter estate, and it was only a matter of time before the flames caught.

But as she stared out at the horizon, Vivian Carter’s eyes gleamed—not with panic, but with something sharper, older, more dangerous:

Resolve.

They would not ruin her son.

Not the father, not the press, not the social vultures circling for the scent of scandal. If Nicholas wanted this woman, Vivian would burn down kingdoms to give him the choice of keeping her.

But first?

First she had to be sure.

Sure that this Ella wasn’t weakness wearing the mask of love.

Sure that this wasn’t just another scar waiting to happen.

Vivian Carter loved her son with the ferocity of someone who had spent her whole life trapped by men who only wanted control. She wouldn’t see Nicholas fall into that trap—not without knowing exactly what cards were on the table.

She would investigate.

She would watch.

And if Ella was worthy?

Then God help anyone who tried to take her from him.

Because no one protected a Carter the way she did.

No one.

Not even Nicholas knew that yet.

But he would.

Soon.

Very soon.