Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Vivienne
The dress Mia picked out was dark emerald green, shimmering like snake scales under cold light. Deep V, open back, cinched tight at the waist, then flaring below the hips. The hem swayed when I walked.
"Wear this one," she'd said, shoving it into my hands with a look of almost cruel certainty. "Let that bastard see exactly what he had lost."
I'd stood in front of the dressing room mirror, staring at this woman in green velvet, her hourglass figure on full display. Mia was right. This dress was made for revenge.
But now, standing at the marble entrance of the Volkov family wedding venue, I wanted to return the damn thing and crawl into a hole.
The scene was leagues more extravagant than I'd imagined.
The ballroom soared two stories high. Crystal chandeliers poured warm golden light over everything, gilding everyone's skin.
The guests were politicians or business elite—turn around and you'd recognize a face from a Forbes cover.
Women in haute couture, men in silk ties, champagne lined up on waiters' trays in perfect rows.
And me. An assistant who thought a four-figure dress could give her courage, clutching a recorder, wearing a media badge, standing among these people like a grain of rock salt in caviar.
"Vivienne, quit gawking at the door," Gary squeezed past me. He'd changed into a light gray suit today, but it still couldn't hide his gut. "Stay close. You can't handle this kind of event alone."
I swallowed the sarcasm rising in my throat and nodded politely, following him into the crowd.
The next hour, I turned my photographic memory into a highly efficient intelligence-gathering operation.
That white-haired man in the corner—I'd seen his photo in last month's political section. Federal senator, environment committee. The woman beside him wasn't his wife, because his wife had appeared in the Washington Post society pages last week, and this one was clearly twenty years younger.
I handed my card to a woman who looked like an independent publisher's editor. She actually recognized my pen name, V.C. Night, which gave me a moment's relief. Found two guests willing to do brief interviews, barely met Gary's minimum requirements, filled two dense pages in my notebook.
After all that, my heels had rubbed my feet raw. I grabbed a champagne flute and retreated to a quiet corner near a massive ice sculpture, wanting to rest my facial muscles from all the fake smiling.
But before I could take a sip, a nauseating mix of cheap mints and stale coffee closed in from behind.
"Vivienne, sweetheart."
Gary had followed me over somehow. His sticky tone raised goosebumps on my skin.
I turned. He stood close. Close enough that I could see the shine on his face and the blackheads covering his nose.
"Not bad tonight," he said with a tone like he was doing me a favor, his eyes sliding shamelessly down to my neckline. "Nice choice of dress. Very... photogenic."
Christ, what had he eaten tonight? The stench from his mouth made me hold my breath.
"Thanks," I stepped back half a pace, gripping my recorder tighter. "I need to find a few more people to interview."
"What's the rush?" His hand shot out, clamping onto my elbow.
My entire arm went rigid like I'd been electrocuted.
"Gary," I kept my voice low. "Let go."
"You're too tense," he said, not releasing me but leaning closer, dropping his voice half an octave.
"I've seen it for a while now—you're a smart girl.
You know, in this business, writing a few articles nobody reads won't get you anywhere.
Just make me happy tonight, and I guarantee tomorrow that senior editor position is yours. "
All the blood in my body dropped to freezing in that instant. My stomach lurched violently.
"I said let go!" I shoved him hard without mercy.
Gary stumbled back, his spine hitting the ice sculpture's base. He froze for a second, then his ugly face twisted with rage at being rejected.
Like a pig whose face was about to burst from all the fat.
"You ungrateful bitch!" he hissed, jabbing his finger at my nose.
"Who the hell do you think you are? A used-up reject dumped by your man!
You think renting some fancy dress makes you high society?
Men don't want you because your fat ass embarrasses them!
If I hadn't taken pity on you and given you a job, you'd be sleeping on the street with your psycho mother by now!
You're just like that crazy bitch! Whore! Slut!"
My head buzzed. How dare he insult my mother!
I'd had enough.
Seriously, I'd had enough. My body moved faster than my brain.
"Fuck your senior editor position!"
Before I knew it, I'd thrown my entire glass of red wine straight in his face.
His carefully arranged strands of hair immediately drooped down, plastered to his forehead. Wine ran down his face, dripping onto his white collar. He looked ridiculous and pathetic.
The ambient noise seemed to drop a degree. People were noticing the commotion now, but fuck it, I didn't care anymore.
Gary's face went from shocked to red to purple. He moved closer, lowering his voice, but the fury grinding through his teeth didn't diminish one bit. "You fucking... Vivienne Cole, you're fired. Don't let me see you at the magazine tomorrow!"
"Don't bother firing me, you old pervert—I quit!" I slammed the empty glass down on the table with a sharp crack.
I turned and walked away on my heels, spine straight.
But only I knew my heart was trembling wildly in my chest.
I was screwed.
I was really screwed.
Those ten seconds of revenge felt amazing, but reality crashed down like a mountain. I was unemployed. Washington's expensive rent, credit card debt, and my mother's astronomical imported medication bill next month—all of it wrapped around my throat like a net, choking me.
I wanted to cry, but I bit my lip hard, forcing my eyes wide. Vivienne, you can't cry here. You need to get the hell out of this place.
I kept my head down, quickening my pace toward the side exit to make my escape.
But fate apparently didn't think tonight's comedy was complete yet.
I ran straight into someone coming the opposite direction.
"Watch where you're going, lady—"
An imperious female voice sounded above my head.
I looked up.
Oh God.
My breath stopped completely.
Standing before me was a woman in a pure white, minimalist but supremely luxurious custom wedding gown—the new bride—Chloe Vanguard. Thin as a matchstick that might snap any second, but her expertly made-up face radiated insufferable arrogance.
And beside her, arm tight around her waist, wearing a pure black tailcoat, was the man who'd humiliated me with bedroom photos via text just a week ago—my ex-fiancé, Derek.
My throat tightened.
God, couldn't I avoid running into my ex when I was this wrecked?
Derek's gaze fell first on my press badge, then rose to my face. That familiar contemptuous curve of his mouth—the one I'd ground my teeth over during countless sleepless nights—slowly appeared.
"Wow," he said, eyebrows rising theatrically. "Vivienne. You actually came."
His tone made me sound like a stray cat that wouldn't leave.
I took a deep breath, forcing down the fire burning through my throat.
"I'm working," I tried to keep my voice steady. "Congratulations to you both."
"Working." Chloe rolled the word around in her mouth, then tilted her head toward Derek with a lazy smile. "Honey, is she saying she's press?"
"Mm-hmm," Derek's eyes slid from my face to my dress, then my waist, my shoulders, not bothering to hide his appraisal. "Urban Style? Never heard of it. Didn't think you had it in you to get in here."
"I didn't think so either." I maintained my smile with effort. "But since I'm here, might as well do the job."
"Of course," Chloe said breezily. "The media seats are all arranged. You shouldn't have trouble finding yours, right?" Her gaze landed on my waist, then dropped another inch. "Or... you came for other reasons? After all, some people might have trouble letting go."
Her look cut into me like knives.
"Chloe," Derek's tone carried fake concern.
"Don't be like that. Vivienne's just..." He paused, the curve of his mouth deepening.
"She just hasn't found anyone more suitable yet.
Right, V? I mean, this kind of event, your figure in that dress...
it's a bit of a stretch. Always trying to get attention, aren't you? "
He knew me too well. His words were a knife stabbing precisely into my sorest spot.
We'd been together three years. He'd said this to me countless times. But I'd always endured it, telling myself it was love, that his method was wrong but his intentions were good, that I was too sensitive.
But now, standing alone at what should have been my wedding, caught between unemployment panic and my ex's humiliation, I felt like a naked clown thrown under a spotlight.
"Shut up, Derek." I clenched my fists, shifting my gaze to Chloe with a polite smile. "Congratulations, Chloe. You married a man who cheats and sends bedroom pics to his ex a week before the wedding. Hope it all works out great for you both."
Chloe's smile cracked.
Good. At least I wasn't the only one uncomfortable.
I lifted my chin and moved to go around them.
But Derek deliberately stepped in my path, blocking me.
"Don't rush off, Vivienne." His fake face wore vicious satisfaction.
He leaned in closer, voice low enough for just the three of us.
"Since you're here, take a good look. See what real high society is.
See what kind of woman actually deserves me.
Your pathetic keyboard-pecking poverty and that fat you can never lose—you only deserve garbage men from the dumpster. "
"Interesting," I met Derek's eyes. "Hope Chloe doesn't have to fake orgasms and comfort you about how great you were. Three-minute wonder."
Derek's face twisted. Ignoring Chloe's attempt to stop him, he raised his fist viciously. "You bitch—"
Just as I was about to kick off my heels and smash his face—