His tone was natural as he spoke.
"Oh."
She replied, her voice very soft.
"What's the matter? You're not happy?"
He frowned, his gaze lingering on her face for a few seconds.
"Not at all," she suddenly smiled, "Aunt Elara is beautiful and has a good temper. Who wouldn't like her?"
But only she knew that the smile never reached her eyes.
Elara Joyce was truly impeccable.
She was strikingly beautiful, her features so delicate she looked like a celebrity on a magazine cover. Her manners were gracious and poised, and she spoke in a gentle, soft voice.
It was only natural that Mrs. Prescott liked her.
Almost everyone in the Prescott Family liked her.
But—
Vivian had always thought Curtis Prescott liked the quiet, gentle type of girl.
Like the senior student he used to walk with along the university library corridor.
The way he looked at her back then, his eyes seemed to shine.
But now, he chose Elara Joyce.
Showy, dazzling, from a prestigious family.
That did surprise her.
But none of that mattered anymore.
It had nothing to do with her.
Her childhood experiences had taught her one thing:
See your place clearly. Don't cross the line.
She was a foster child in the Prescott Family, nominally Curtis Prescott's niece, but with no blood relation at all.
She could be treated kindly, could be cared for.
But she shouldn't harbor any ambitions.
Curtis walked ahead, his steps steady. At her last sentence, "Who wouldn't like her?", he simply responded coolly,
"That's good."
The two of them went downstairs, one after the other.
The wooden stairs creaked softly.
In the dining room, Walter Prescott was already seated, along with his two children.
Hannah Prescott had been out entertaining friends last night, so she hadn't run into Vivian. Now, seeing her today, her eyes landed on her at once, scanning her up and down, a smirk tugging at her lips.
"Well, the young lady finally decided to come home?"
She picked up her teacup, leisurely blowing on it.
"Grandma just passed, and you're already rushing back to split the inheritance?"
She paused, as if suddenly remembering something, deliberately drawing out her words.
"Oh, right, I almost forgot, you aren't even a Prescott."
Vivian pressed her lips together, her mouth twitching slightly.
She'd wanted to bow her head and act like she hadn't heard, to swallow her anger.
But over a decade of legal training was ingrained in her bones.
Almost instinctively, she lifted her head.
"Isn't Mr. Prescott still alive? He's healthy, so what's there to fight over inheritance for?"
She paused, her eyes meeting the other's directly.
"Or is it that you're actually wishing for that day to come sooner?"
The implication couldn't be clearer.
Hannah Prescott, deep down, you're just hoping your father dies so you can get your share.
Hannah's expression changed in an instant.
She hadn't expected that the Vivian she used to order around…
After a few years apart, she'd dare say something like that in front of everyone.
She was about to retort, the words stuck in her throat,
"Enough, Hannah, that's enough. Your brother is still here."
It was Curtis who spoke up.
He sat by the head of the table, calm and composed.
Hannah felt instantly choked, anger rising inside her.
But she didn't dare lose her temper at Curtis.
She had never been able to lift her head in front of him, even as a child.
This uncle of hers was only a few years older, but from his manner to his presence, he overpowered her in every way.
He could make people cautious with silence; when he spoke, no one dared talk back.
No matter how furious she was, she could only grit her teeth.
At the side, Walter Prescott—Mr. Prescott—his face had already darkened.
He had been picking food, but at the mention of "inheritance," his chopsticks stopped, all traces of a smile gone.
He slowly lifted his head, glaring coldly at his daughter.
"Can't keep your mouth shut even during dinner? In front of our guest, have you no manners at all?"
Hannah immediately deflated,
her shoulders shrinking, head lowered, fingers twisting at her clothes.
But inwardly, she resented Vivian to the core.
A girl living off their family—how dare she answer back?
She'd make her pay, one day.
Across the table, Vincent Prescott was a bit surprised too, glancing at Vivian.
He'd been idly peeling an orange.
He stared at Vivian's profile.
This girl… wasn't she a pushover before?
How did she end up having a bite to her now?
The family sat around the dinner table, food abundant and fragrant,
but everyone's expression held their own secrets.
After dinner, the servants quietly cleared the dishes.
The living room coffee table was soon filled with fruit and delicate pastries.
A bouquet of white roses was arranged in the center.
Sharon Quinn sat on the sofa, casually picking up a piece of sliced mango.
She handed the fork to Vivian, who was sitting beside her.
"Here, have some fruit. It's good for your skin. A young woman needs to take care of herself."
Vivian looked down at the piece of mango.
Her fingers curled slightly.
Just as she was about to thank her and take the fork, she heard a sweet voice sound out.
"Aunt Sharon, I want some too."
It was Hannah.
She got up from the sofa on the other side.
She walked to the coffee table, her face wearing a well-behaved smile.
Sharon turned and smiled, unhesitatingly picked up another piece of fruit and handed it over.
"You love these, Hannah. Just flown in from abroad. Try it, see how sweet it is."
"Thank you, Aunt Sharon."
Hannah replied sweetly, taking the fork and slowly taking a bite.
The fruit was sweet and juicy. She narrowed her eyes, seeming to enjoy it greatly.
But her gaze slid sideways, aiming at Vivian.
Vivian pressed her lips together.
She gripped the fork, her fingertips turning cold, a wave of unnamed emotion rising in her chest.
When Sharon went to the kitchen to check the tea,
Curtis got up to take a call.
The others gradually left the living room, and the lively space turned quiet.
Vivian looked down at the fork in her hand, then at the untouched mango.
She let out a gentle sigh and put the fork down.
The mango rested quietly in the dish, its flesh fresh and bright, but no one touched it again.
She was allergic to mangoes.
Even she couldn't quite remember when it had started.
She just vaguely recalled being seven or eight years old that year.
A neighbor brought back a golden mango from the south, especially for her grandma to try.
Grandma took the fruit, her face full of kindness, saying, "This is a rare treat. I can't bear to eat it; I'll save it for my granddaughter to nourish her."
That afternoon, grandma quietly handed her the peeled mango, telling her not to let anyone know.
She was so happy then, she polished it off in a few bites.
But not long after, her face began to burn, her neck turned red, and then it spread to her arms and chest.
Her whole body broke out in a rash, red spots appearing everywhere.
She curled up on the bed in pain, tears streaming down uncontrollably, her hoarse voice crying, "Grandma, I feel so awful."
Grandma was terrified, rushing her to the hospital that very night.
The doctor said it was a severe allergic reaction.
If they'd come any later, it could have triggered anaphylactic shock.
She got an allergy shot, was put on an IV drip, and only improved after three days in the hospital.