The CEO's Rejected Wife And Secret Heir novel Chapter 133

Chapter 133: Chapter 133:Meeting Vivan

Aria pov

And Olivia’s: Forgiveness is for you, not her.

And Damien’s: You’re better than the revenge game.

"Damn it," I muttered.

Before I could second-guess myself, I replied to Margaret. Don’t take any additional action. I’ll handle this personally. —Aria

Then I did something either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid: I texted Vivian’s last unknown number.

We need to talk. Sunrise Inn, Route 9, one hour. Come alone or don’t come at all. —Aria

My phone rang almost immediately from the unknown number. "Hello?" I answered.

"Aria." Vivian’s voice was cautious, surprised. "I—I didn’t expect to hear from you."

"One hour," I repeated. "Room number?"

"127." She paused. "Is this a trap? Are you bringing the police?"

"No police and it’s not a trap." I grabbed my purse. "Just two sisters who need to have a conversation we should have had years ago."

"Aria, I"

"One hour, Vivian, be there or I’m done trying."

I hung up before she could respond. Richards intercepted me in the lobby. "Ms. Monroe, where are you going? You have a meeting in thirty minutes"

"Cancel it," I said. "And Richards? I need you to do something for me."

"Of course."

"If I’m not back in two hours, or if I don’t check in via text every thirty minutes, send security to the Sunrise Inn, Route 9, room 127. Got it?"

His expression sharpened. "You’re meeting with Vivian."

"Yes."

"That’s not safe"

"Which is why you’re my backup." I met his eyes. "But Richards, I need to do this alone. No surveillance, no security hovering. Just me and my sister, finally having it out."

"Mr. Blackwood won’t like this," Richards said.

"Mr. Blackwood doesn’t get a vote," I said firmly. "This is my decision. My sister and my closure."

Richards studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Two hours. Thirty-minute check-ins. And Ms. Monroe? Your phone stays on location sharing."

"Deal."

The Sunrise Inn was exactly as depressing as expected—peeling paint, flickering neon sign, the kind of place where people hid from life rather than lived it. Room 127 was on the ground floor. I stood outside the door for a long moment, gathering courage.

This is it. The confrontation you’ve been avoiding. The conversation that determines whether you get closure or just more pain.

I knocked. The door opened slowly. Vivian stood there, and I barely recognized her.

Gone was the polished, put-together socialite. Her hair was unwashed, pulled into a messy ponytail. No makeup. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. She looked—She looked broken. "Aria." Her voice was small. "You came."

"You have one hour," I said, walking past her into the dingy room. I turned to face her. "Why did you leave the apartment?"

She blinked, surprised by the question. "How did you"

"I know everything, Vivian. The building manager works for me. Security footage. Credit card records." I crossed my arms. "So answer the question. I set up a payment plan. You could have stayed, why did you run?"

Her face flushed. "Because I figured out that you owned the building. That you were the one who’d saved me from eviction."

"And?"

"And I couldn’t" She wrapped her arms around herself. "I couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t accept your charity. Not after everything I’d done. It felt like—like you were rubbing it in my face. ’Look how magnanimous Aria is, saving her terrible sister who tried to destroy her.’"

"So you’d rather live in this dump than accept help from me?"

"Yes!" Her voice rose. "Because at least here, I don’t owe you anything. At least here, I don’t have to see your kindness and know I don’t deserve it."

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