Chapter 86 The Countermove
Viviana sat in a glass-walled conference room perched high above Manhattan, surrounded by five people who billed more in an hour than some made all month.
She studied them: Harold, her attorney; Miranda, the crisis manager; two PR consultants; and a media strategist.
Tablets lay on the table, every screen flashing the same headlines.
Miranda broke the silence. “The Times piece has hit three million views. Washington Post isn’t far behind. CNN’s been looping the story nonstop. It’s trending everywhere.”
Viviana didn’t bother looking up. “I can read numbers. Tell me how we make this stop.”
“We don’t stop it.” Miranda tapped her tablet. “We redirect it.”
Viviana raised an eyebrow. “How?”
Miranda flicked on a screen. “Right now, you’re the villain—successful woman ruined other women for kicks. It’s devastating because it’s so neat and easy.”
Viviana didn’t flinch. “Go on.”
“So we make it messy. Throw in questions about the evidence, the sources, everyone’s motivation.”
David, the PR guy, chimed in. “We’ve drafted statements. First one goes out in an hour. You’ll sound shocked. Fully cooperative. Standard playbook.”
Viviana scoffed. “That’s just code for ‘guilty but polite.’”
“You’ll sound helpful. There’s a difference,” David insisted.
Harold finally set his tablet down. “Legally, it’s complicated. The DA’s investigating fraud, conspiracy, and maybe even RICO if they see a pattern.”
“Is there a pattern?” Viviana asked.
“They’ve got four cases over fourteen years. They’ll say yes. Proving RICO’s another thing—they’d need to show you ran some ongoing criminal operation.”
“I worked alone.”
“Then that’s our angle. No organized crime syndicate—just some unfortunate, isolated events that happened years apart.”
Viviana’s voice was colder. “Unfortunate? You’re calling fraud unfortunate?”
“I’m saying we can defend this. It’s not hopeless—if we reframe things.”
Miranda swooped in. “We won’t deny the emails. We can’t—they’re real. Instead, we’ll give context.”
She clicked to a slide:
— Internal messages taken out of context
— Intense, competitive environment
— Multiple investigations flagged legitimate issues
— Accusers out for money
“Financial motivation?” Viviana shot back.
“Elena Moreno’s suing. The others will follow. They want cash, and drama sells.”
“And Patricia Ross?”
Miranda didn’t blink. “Patricia was fired over twenty years ago and hasn’t landed on her feet since. She blames you. Of course she does.”
David cut in. “We’re vetting the other women—Karen White, Maria Santos. Looking for holes, inconsistencies. Anything.”
“And Margaret Walsh?” Viviana asked.
Silence. Miranda gave Harold a look.
Harold cleared his throat. “Margaret’s difficult. Former assistant. Lots of receipts. She’s better positioned than the rest.”
Viviana’s jaw set. “So discredit her too.”
“We’re digging. Checking her history, finances, all of it. Anything that shows she kept documents for a reason.”
Viviana almost laughed. “Twenty-two years is obsessive. That’s not normal.”
“It’s…unusual. We’ll look into it.”
She stood and wandered to the window, eyes on the city below. Millions out there, reading about her. Judging.
She snapped back. “Timelines?”
“For charges?” Harold replied. “DA usually needs four to six weeks to gather evidence and interview witnesses. That’s your window.”
“And civil suits?”
“Those already dropped. Elena’s team added wrongful death claims about Rebecca Moreno.”
Viviana’s stare hardened. “Rebecca died from drinking.”
“They blame you. Concealment, emotional distress. Timeline fits their story.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It is. But with your emails, it doesn’t seem as wild as it should.”
Viviana faced the room again. “I want Margaret Walsh investigated. I want everything. Where she lives, who she knows, all of it.”
Miranda’s tone sharpened. “Why? For leverage?”
Viviana shrugged. “Understanding the enemy isn’t illegal.”
Harold sounded cautious. “Depends on how you use it. Witness intimidation is a felony.”
“I’m just collecting information.”
He shot her a look. “Don’t get reckless.”
Viviana sank back into her chair. “What now?”
David wasted no time. “Media interview. Friendly outlet. You need to speak.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“You have to. Silence is fatal now.”
“Talking looks defensive.”
“Not if we prep you right. We know a producer who’ll throw softballs. You come off like the victim. The successful woman being attacked out of jealousy.”
She almost smiled. “That’s the real story.”
“Then let’s sell it.”
Viviana mulled it over. “When?”
“End of the week. We’ll run you through everything. You can’t make a single mistake.”
She nodded. “Book it.”
Miranda scribbled a note. “We’ll also plant op-eds. Get business heavyweights, women you’ve mentored, people with real credibility to speak up for you.”
Viviana didn’t look convinced. “Make sure they’re solid. No paid loyalists.”
Miranda just said, “We know.”
The meeting dragged another hour, every detail rehashed and rehearsed.
Then Viviana rode the elevator down alone. At the lobby, a reporter pounced.
“Mrs. Mark! Any comment on the allegations?”
She walked on.
“Did you frame Rebecca Moreno?”
Her driver opened the door. She slid in.
The reporter shouted, “Is it true you married Rebecca’s husband after she died?”
Door slammed. Silence.
They pulled into traffic. Viviana stared out at the city — people just going about their lives, not being destroyed on the internet.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She hesitated, answered.
“Yes?”
A woman spoke, voice older, a little shaky. “Viviana Mark Chen?”
“Who is this?”
“Margaret Walsh. We have to talk.”
Viviana gripped the phone, all steel. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Listen anyway. I know people are digging around my life—finances, family, all of it.”
Viviana kept her tone flat. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do. You want dirt. I’m telling you—there’s nothing. I lived quietly, paid my taxes, kept my head down. You won’t find leverage.”
Viviana sneered. “If you’re so innocent, why are you calling?”
Margaret didn’t flinch. “Because I’m not scared anymore. For twenty-two years, I worried you’d come after me if I spoke up. But I’m sixty-three. Retired. Nothing left to lose.”
“Everyone has something.”
Margaret’s voice steadied. “Not me. Not anymore. All you’ll find is a boring woman who kept evidence because her conscience wouldn’t let her shred it. That’s it.”
Viviana’s patience snapped. “Are you finished?”
“One last thing. I’m testifying. To everyone. And I won’t change my story, because it’s not a story. It’s the truth.”
Viviana scoffed. “Truth is subjective.”
Margaret shot right back. “Not when it’s written in your own words.”
Viviana hung up.
She sat quietly for a minute. Margaret was probably right.
The perfect skeleton-free life. But that didn’t mean Viviana couldn’t dig for something. Or just make something up.
She dialed another number. A man answered. “Yes?”
“I need information on Margaret Walsh. Brooklyn address. Details incoming.”
“What kind?”
“The useful kind.”
“Vague.”
“Get creative. Nothing illegal. I can’t afford more trouble.”
“I get it. How fast?”
“Yesterday.”
Call over.
When the car stopped at her house, reporters were already there, so she told the driver to circle to the back. They slipped in through the garage.
Inside, the kitchen was quiet. Marcus sat at the table, cold coffee in hand.
He didn’t look up right away. “We have to talk.”
She tried to wave it off. “Not now.”
But Marcus insisted. “Now. I gave Elena’s team the documents. About Rebecca. It’s all in the case.”
Viviana dropped her purse. “I know. I’ve read the filings.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want—a confession?”
“An explanation. Or maybe just some shred of humanity.”
She met his eyes. “Would it help?”
He looked exhausted. “Did you really do it? Frame Rebecca, call her bosses?”
She didn’t blink. “The emails answer that, don’t they?”
“And you don’t regret any of it.”
“She was in my way, Marcus.”
“That’s your reason? Just ‘in my way’?”
“That’s always been the reason. If someone’s in my way, I move them. Simple as that.”
He recoiled. “It’s monstrous.”
“It’s survival. And you—our family—you benefited. All of this, our life, came from those choices.”
He looked ill. “On Rebecca’s grave.”
“She dug her own grave. I just handed her the shovel.”
He stood, shaking. “I can’t live like this. Not with you.”
She barely reacted. “Where will you go?”
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t stay here. I can’t look at you.”
She reached for him. “Marcus—”
He pulled back. “You destroyed my wife. Married me. Raised Felicia. All while pretending you’re someone else.”
“I feel things. I just don’t waste time regretting the past.”
He fumbled for his keys, desperate to escape. “That’s the problem. You should regret something.”
He walked out. The front door slammed.
Viviana stood alone, numb in the kitchen.
Her phone buzzed.
Felicia: I’m staying with a friend. Don’t bother.
Another door closed. Another person gone.
She told herself it was fine. She never needed anyone.
She went to her study, closed the door, and opened her laptop.
The headlines still blared. Accusations doubled, tripled, then started to multiply in the other direction.
New voices:
Is Viviana Mark the real victim of a jealous campaign?
Trial by social media: Where’s the justice?
A woman’s career shredded by rumor—not fact.
Her PR team was working. Slowly, but visibly—the narrative shifting, skepticism seeping in.
It wasn’t much. But it was a start.
She sent out a flurry of emails—composed and professional—to old colleagues, board members, anyone who’d ever owed her a favor.
Subject: These stories aren’t the truth. I’ve always valued honesty…
She got three replies that day. Two supportive, one cautious. The rest said nothing.
She kept working. Calls, messages, outreach. By nightfall, commitments from four people—public support, character witnesses, all of it.
A small show of force. Not overwhelming. But enough.
She poured herself a glass of wine and sat in her silent house. The phone buzzed again and again—reporters, strangers, opportunists. She let it buzz.
Tomorrow she’d start preparing for the interview. she’d fight.
Viviana had built her name on never backing down. Not once. Not ever.
Tonight, though, it felt different. The fortress felt hollow. The wine tasted like nothing.
She watched the city light up, and the thought flickered, for the first time in years—maybe this was finally too far. Maybe there really was no way back.
The idea didn’t scare her—it infuriated her.
Viviana Mark Chen didn’t lose. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
She’d find a way.
Even if she had to burn everything, and everyone, on her way out. Especially then.