Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Vivienne
I thought I'd spend the whole night staring at the ceiling, counting sheep.
New place, strange bed, brain stuffed with everything that happened today—mafia boss, contract, an entire estate, and that thumb that lingered at the corner of my mouth for a full two seconds. Any one of those should've been enough to keep me up till dawn.
Turns out that four-poster bed was too damn comfortable.
The second I hit those sheets—God knows what thread count—my body surrendered completely. Didn't even bother rolling over. Slept straight through till the sun woke me up.
I lay there for maybe thirty seconds, letting my brain slowly reboot.
Confirming yesterday wasn't a dream. Confirming I was really in a guest suite at some Russian mob boss's estate.
Confirming that at eight a.m., "the most terrifying etiquette dragon in all of Washington" was coming to knock on my door.
I checked my phone. Seven twenty-seven.
I launched out of bed at record speed and sprinted for the bathroom.
Seven forty-five, I yanked open the suite door.
A man stood in the hallway.
More specifically, a man wearing nothing but sweatpants from the waist down, wiping sweat off his neck with a towel.
His silver hair was messy—none of that usual pristine perfection where every strand knew its place.
Instead, there was a loose, post-workout dishevelment.
Broad shoulders, a cut torso that moved with his breathing, radiating raw, explosive power.
Just those gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, exposing a viciously sharp V-line carved into his lower abs.
What really caught my eye were the scars—old ones crisscrossing his skin. Two below his collarbone that looked like knife wounds, glinting cold and brutal in the morning light.
My brain completely crashed.
My knees went a little weak.
I quickly grabbed the doorframe with my left hand, pretending to adjust my posture.
He held a white towel, about to wipe his neck, but stopped when he saw me.
He looked me over slowly. From my bird's nest of curls to the oversized old T-shirt hanging off me like a sack, finally landing on my hand gripping the doorframe so hard my knuckles went white.
A wickedly amused curve spread slowly across those sharp lips.
"Morning, firecracker." He turned toward me, barefoot. With each step, that scent—cedar, masculine sweat, faint gunpowder—intensified, rolling over me like a wave.
"Morning, boss man." I forced my chin up, trying to mask my racing heartbeat with my usual defiance. "If you're wandering the halls half-naked first thing in the morning just to show your fake fiancée your body fat percentage, I gotta admit, your vanity's as pretentious as your cufflinks."
Nikolai let out a low chuckle, his chest vibrating. He closed the distance, that six-foot-three frame blocking out all the hallway sunlight.
He didn't stop. Instead, he moved closer. I instinctively tried to back up, but he was faster—his right hand shot out, slamming against the door behind me, caging me between his chest and the wood.
"I thought in my own house, I had absolute freedom to dress however I want, sweetheart." He lowered his head, closing the gap. That startling heat radiated off him, his breath hot against my cheek, making me scrunch my neck.
Those gray eyes locked on mine, dark fire flickering in their depths.
"But you, Vivienne. You were staring at my abs without blinking.
If you need any 'further observation' for academic purposes, feel free to just say so like you did last night.
No need for this roundabout way of getting my attention. "
"Deflection is a weak man's defense, Mr. Volkov." My cheeks flushed hot, blood rushing to my ears, but my stubborn, fiery nature refused to show weakness in front of this gangster.
I took a deep breath and deliberately pushed my chest forward, letting what my oversized T-shirt couldn't hide brush against his damp, hard pecs. I raised one finger and traced it slowly, provocatively down that warm skin on his chest.
"I'm just assessing my 'writing material.' After all, a proper romance novelist needs accurate knowledge of character anatomy. But since you're being so generous, I'd love to see if what's under those sweatpants is as confident as your mouth."
I arched an eyebrow, my gaze deliberately dropping to his waistband.
Nikolai's body tensed violently the instant my finger touched his abs. Those dark gray eyes turned dark, predatory, burning with desire that could melt me alive. His hand pressed against the door tightened, knuckles white.
"You're really asking for it, firecracker." His voice came out raspy, hoarse as he leaned down, lips almost brushing mine, his large hand already wandering toward my waist.
Just as the electricity between us was about to ignite the air, as reason teetered on the edge again—
"Ahem."
A subtle but deliberate cough came from down the hall.
I jolted like someone dumped ice water over my head. The sheer mortification of getting caught doing something inappropriate in someone's house flooded through me. I shoved Nikolai's chest away frantically, wishing I could find a hole to crawl into, my entire face burning scarlet.
Nikolai seemed perfectly composed. He reluctantly withdrew his hand from the door, casually draping the sweaty towel over his broad shoulder, his gray eyes returning to their usual cold sharpness as he looked down the hall.
"What is it, Sophia?" His voice was perfectly steady, as if the man who'd just cornered me wasn't him at all.
The estate's head housekeeper, Sophia, stood ramrod straight a few steps away. She wore her impeccable black uniform, hair styled like a helmet, clutching a thick folder. Her weathered face showed no extra expression—rational, detached, like a lifeless sculpture.
"My apologies for the interruption, sir.
" Sophia gave a slight bow, her tone professionally detached to the point of being chilling.
"The traditional Russian breakfast prepared by the chef has been served in the dining room downstairs at optimal temperature.
If you and Ms. Cole don't need to continue your 'morning fitness assessment' in the hallway, I believe now would be the ideal time for dining. "
My toes were already curling with embarrassment inside my pants. I kept my head down, twisting the hem of my T-shirt, not daring to meet Sophia's eyes.
"Understood." Nikolai gave a brief nod. "I'll shower and come down. Take her to the dining room first."
"As you wish, sir." Sophia bowed again.
Just when I thought this public execution was finally over and I could escape with Sophia, the veteran housekeeper who'd served this estate for eighteen years, suddenly stopped.
Her experienced eyes swept subtly between me and Nikolai's bare torso, then, in an extremely tactful tone—almost like a caring elder—she delivered her parting words.
"Also, Ms. Cole, sir. While only the two of you currently reside in the west wing, to avoid any unnecessary...
mental shock to the younger staff in the mornings, I personally suggest that when you engage in such passionate discussions in the future, you remember to close the door.
Washington mornings can be quite breezy. "
With that, Sophia flashed a graceful, inscrutable smile, turned on those soundless leather shoes, and elegantly departed.
Leaving me there, face exploding red, completely mortified.
I turned and shot the culprit beside me a vicious glare. Nikolai stood there, hand propped under his chin, his usually cruel face showing a rare, exasperated, defeated expression.
"Guess your etiquette lessons really do need to start with the basics—like 'closing doors,' hotshot writer." He curled his lip, dropped that line, and disappeared into his bathroom.
Half an hour later, that delicious Russian breakfast couldn't save my tragic fate. Because when Sophia led me into the sunlit conservatory at nine sharp, I finally met Washington's most terrifying nightmare.
My etiquette instructor, Mrs. Gable.
The retired diplomatic protocol officer wore a severely tailored gray designer suit, her hair pulled into a tight bun. She held a delicate brass teaching pointer, looking at me with zero warmth, like a cold judge sizing up a prisoner about to be sentenced.
"Ms. Cole." Mrs. Gable's tone could even be called gentle, with that upper-class refinement—a velvet knife. "Mr. Volkov has given me only three days. So I must skip the gentle theory and move straight to practice. In this room, you will obey my every command absolutely. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am." I stood tensely in the center of the room.
"Then let's begin with the simplest task—a lady's entrance. Please sit in that chair."
I took a deep breath, trying to make my curvy body look less cumbersome, and moved toward that carved wooden chair with what I hoped was grace.
The pointer slammed against the marble floor with a piercing snap.
"Wrong, Ms. Cole." Mrs. Gable's voice remained gentle, but her words were ice-cold.
"The moment you sat down, your back tilted three degrees from the chair.
At a diplomatic dinner, that announces to your host that you lack basic upbringing.
A lady's spine never touches the backrest—maintain exactly one inch of distance. Do it again. Twenty times."
"Twenty?" I stared in disbelief.
"Since you questioned my teaching method, make it forty. Begin." Mrs. Gable looked at me expressionlessly.
Screw diplomatic protocol! I cursed Nikolai a thousand times in my head, but under the Pakhan's intimidation, I could only grit my teeth, straighten my spine, and mechanically stand, sit, stand, sit on that damn chair.
My thigh muscles started burning fast.
"Stop!" The pointer struck again. "When rising, a lady's knees must remain together, ankles uncrossed. Your posture just now resembled a hungover woman waiting for cheap takeout at a bar. Again. Thirty in a row."
The entire morning was absolute physical torture.
Mrs. Gable was the most sadistic perfectionist I'd ever met.
With that sugar-sweet voice, she dissected and punished every tiny movement.
Wrong finger angle holding a champagne flute?
Do it over ten times! Silk skirt swaying more than two inches climbing stairs?
Ten more times! Eye contact during a handshake half a second too short? Sorry, another ten!
Worse, because of my fuller figure, movements that looked effortless on size-zero models required every ounce of my core strength to control. My spine, my abs, my thighs—after hundreds of repetitions, they'd lost all feeling.
Finally, at noon, Mrs. Gable elegantly tucked away her brass pointer and gave me a thoroughly fake smile. "Dance class begins promptly at two p.m., Ms. Cole. I hope your ligaments are as tough as your lips."
I collapsed in the chair, too exhausted even to roll my eyes.
But the afternoon's ballroom dancing lesson was what truly showed me hell on earth.
At two sharp, the Persian rugs in the conservatory were rolled away, revealing mirror-polished hardwood. My dance instructor, Patrick, glided in. He wore a tailcoat, exuding the refined air of an antique English aristocrat.
"Ms. Cole, per Mr. Volkov's strict requirements and propriety, I will not touch you at all during instruction." Patrick's voice was exceptionally smooth, but his long, elegant fingers held a slender black... wand?
More precisely, a specialized wooden conductor's baton used to correct orchestra posture.
That little thing became my unshakable nightmare for the next four hours.
"The essence of the Viennese waltz is rotational balance, Ms. Cole. One, two, three, turn—"
Patrick glided around me with elegant footwork. I lifted my heavy practice skirt, wobbling in three-inch dance shoes, spinning dizzily on the polished floor.
That slender stick suddenly struck my right ankle—light but precise.
"Ow!" I yelped, my steps immediately faltering.
"Mind your toe, Ms. Cole. That turn, your right foot turned out two centimeters—that would step on the gentleman's shoes. Maintain distance, please." Patrick hadn't even messed up his hair, elegantly stepping back.
Whenever my frame collapsed or my wrist sagged, that damned black stick would materialize like a ghost and tap my wrist, elbow, or ankle with a pointed little "crack."
By the end of the afternoon, I'd been tapped countless times! Eventually, just hearing that stick slice through air made my muscles spasm reflexively.
Ballroom dancing already demands insane stamina and coordination—add constant vigilance against that damn baton, and when the six-thirty bell finally rang, my legs were completely shot. My heels burned where sweat soaked the blisters.
Two young maids practically carried me back to the dining room.
When I flopped into my seat like jelly—utterly disheveled, legs still trembling violently—I was barely alive.
At the other end of the long table, Nikolai already sat there.
Still in that crisp black suit, perfectly composed, holding a teacup with elegant precision like some deity. He lifted those gray eyes and slowly took in my pale, shaking, pathetic state.
The air froze for two seconds.
Then I clearly saw this usually cold, ruthless Bratva Pakhan—that sharp mouth—unmistakably curl into an arrogant smirk.
He laughed. A genuine, low laugh full of schadenfreude and wicked amusement.
All day's humiliation, rage, and physical agony ignited into pure fury the moment I saw that smile!
Screw the mob boss! Screw absolute authority!
"Nikolai Volkov! Don't you dare laugh!"
Rage consumed me completely. My brain shut down entirely. Despite my trembling legs, some primal force exploded from nowhere. I slammed the table and launched myself like a rabid wildcat straight at him from across the table!
My body hit with full force as I landed squarely straddling his designer-clad thighs. Before he could react, I lunged forward and clamped both hands over those sharp lips about to mock me!
The massive dining room plunged into deathly, pin-drop silence.
The four young maids, Sophia, and two bodyguards by the door all froze simultaneously—eyes wide with horror, petrified like they'd been hit with a freezing spell.