Chapter 5 - Whispers in Newport
The retaliation did not come through the courts. It came through the sewers of high-society gossip.
By Monday morning, every social media feed from Palm Beach to Manhattan was saturated with a vicious, coordinated leak. *The Newport Daily Herald*, heavily subsidized by Beckett’s remaining allies in the conservative venture funds, ran a front-page exposé: *THE CROSS SCANDAL: Did Vivienne Sterling Orchestrate Her Husband’s Downfall With Her Billionaire Paramour?*
Photographs taken with high-powered telephoto lenses appeared on Instagram and Page Six.
There was a picture of Julian helping me into his town car outside the Breakers, his hand resting supportively at the small of my back. Another of us standing on the balcony of his Providence penthouse at two in the morning, our silhouettes framed by the rain. The accompanying captions painted a grotesque narrative: a calculating, vengeful wife who had used her childhood connection to Julian Cross to frame her devoted husband, drive him out of his own company, and seize control of the family dynasty.
"They're trying to shift the public narrative," Julian said, pacing the length of Eleanor’s private study at the Harbor House in Narragansett.
He held a printout of the morning's headlines. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles twitched beneath the stubble of his dark beard.
"Let them talk," I said, calmly pouring tea from a porcelain pot that had belonged to my great-grandmother. "Newport society has the memory of a goldfish. They will believe whatever lie is most entertaining until a more appetizing scandal comes along."
"They're calling you a murderer, Vivienne," Julian said, his voice raw with suppressed fury. He threw the paper onto the desk. "Beckett gave an anonymous interview to *Town & Country*. He hinted that your miscarriage wasn't an accident. He suggested you were reckless. That you didn't want his heir."
The teacup in my hand stopped halfway to my lips.
The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Julian saw the change in my eyes and instantly regretted speaking the words aloud. He knelt beside my chair, his hand closing gently over mine, steadying the trembling porcelain. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have repeated that filth."
"He said that?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. "He said that to the press?"
"He’s desperate, Vivienne. The federal prosecutors have seized his personal accounts. The enforcers he borrowed five million dollars from to make bail are knocking on his mother’s door in Southampton. He has nothing left to lose except his reputation, and he’s using your pain as his shield."
I set the cup down on the saucer with a quiet *clink*.
"Where is Sloane?" I asked.
Julian looked surprised by the shift in target. "She’s hiding at the Vance Gallery on Bellevue Avenue. The gallery is closed to the public, but our surveillance confirms she’s been sleeping in the private apartment upstairs. Why?"
"Because Beckett is a blunt instrument, Julian. He punches until his knuckles break. But Sloane... Sloane is the spider. She orchestrated the PR leak. She has the contact list for every society editor in New York."
I stood up, walking over to Eleanor’s antique mahogany desk. I pulled open the hidden bottom drawer, releasing a small velvet-lined tray. Inside lay a set of vintage brass keys and a leather-bound journal with Eleanor’s initials pressed in gold leaf.
"My mother didn't just run shipping lines, Julian," I said, turning the pages of the journal. "She ran the Newport Preservation Society’s charitable foundation for twenty-five years. And for twenty-five years, Arthur Vance acted as the chief appraiser for all donated art and antiquities."
Julian’s eyes narrowed with sudden comprehension. "The tax write-offs."
"Every time a Newport dowager wanted to donate an 18th-century portrait to reduce her estate taxes, Arthur Vance appraised it at four times its actual market value. And in exchange, Eleanor allowed the Vance Gallery to take a twelve percent brokerage fee."
I looked up at Julian, the diamond crescent cuff gleaming on my wrist.
"Eleanor kept the true appraisals here," I said, tapping the leather journal. "Every single forged valuation. Every receipt signed by Sloane’s father. Over sixty million dollars in fraudulent charitable deductions over two decades."
Julian let out a low whistle, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "The IRS would seize the entire Vance estate before dinner."
"Not the IRS, Julian," I corrected him. "Sloane."
"What do you mean?"
"Sloane doesn't know this journal exists. She thinks she can use Beckett’s stolen millions to buy her way back into society once this blows over. Call an emergency press conference at the Vance Gallery at three o'clock today. Invite the *Herald*, the *Times*, and every high-society gossip who posted those photos of us."
Julian tilted his head, watching me with that deep, unfathomable intensity. "What are you going to do, Vivienne?"
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"I’m going to offer my dearest childhood friend a choice," I replied, smoothing down the lapel of my black cashmere coat. "She can either tell the truth about Beckett Montgomery to every camera in Rhode Island... or she can watch the Vance name be erased from history by five o'clock."
***
