Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Vivienne
It'd been one hell of a week.
I sat curled up in the custom reading chair tucked in the corner of the study, fingers flying across the keyboard.
Ever since that "grand debut" at the charity gala, Nikolai had been dragging me into increasingly dangerous underground operations like he was determined to live up to that absurd partnership agreement.
From shipment ledgers at the docks to that abandoned warehouse that didn't even exist on any map—I'd witnessed enough to give any normal person a heart attack.
And me? I was fucking thrilled.
I'd been taking all those heart-pounding experiences, giving them a makeover, and shoving them straight into my serial novel.
The result? My numbers exploded.
I stared at the subscription count jumping wildly on my laptop screen, heart hammering. The comment section had completely lost its mind—readers were spamming like crazy, all screaming about wanting to marry Aleksei, the character I'd based on Nikolai.
"OMG, this man is too fucking dangerous, I'm in love."
"Author, please let Aleksei kidnap me too."
"I've read Chapter 7's warehouse scene three times, this dark sexy vibe is perfect."
I couldn't help laughing, about to scroll down further when I heard footsteps outside.
I snapped the laptop shut almost reflexively.
The door swung open. Nikolai walked in wearing a charcoal three-piece suit, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, exposing the defined lines of his forearms. Those penetrating gray eyes swept over me, lingered on my face for a second, then dropped to my just-closed laptop.
"What were you looking at?" His tone was unreadable.
Hell no. I wasn't about to let him know I'd written a romance novel with him as the male lead. A wildly popular male lead, at that.
"Nothing." The answer came out half an octave too high. "Just... work stuff."
He didn't respond, just stared at me for several seconds. That scrutinizing gaze made my scalp prickle, like he could see straight through my eyes into my thoughts.
But finally, he just raised an eyebrow slightly and said nothing.
"Get ready," he said, turning toward the wardrobe. "We're going out."
My eyes lit up as I jumped from the chair. "Where to? The docks? Another warehouse?"
Nikolai stopped and glanced back at me. That look was complicated—somewhere between amused and resigned.
"To see my father."
I froze.
Panic surged through me instantly. I clutched at my skirt. "Should I... should I bring a gift? I mean, first time meeting the parents, I should bring something, right?"
Nikolai walked back, reached out, and touched my head. The gesture was unexpectedly gentle, but his voice carried a coldness I couldn't quite decipher.
"Don't bother." He paused, then added, "There's no one there worth the effort."
I looked at him, caught something flickering in his eyes—not anger, not disgust, but something more complex, more deeply buried. I opened my mouth to ask, but swallowed the words instead.
"Okay," I said. "I'll go change."
The armored Bentley glided smoothly toward Maryland.
Sasha sat in the driver's seat like a lifeless black shadow, playing the invisible man to perfection. I'd already counted the passing streetlights three times and fiddled with the leather armrest switch twice.
Nikolai said nothing.
He leaned against the opposite door, a file resting on his thigh. Since we'd left the city, he hadn't turned a single page. He stared out the tinted bulletproof window, brow heavy, jaw clenched tight.
The air inside felt suffocating.
I snuck a glance at him. Nothing.
Another glance. Still stone-faced.
Alright, Vivienne. Your turn.
"If you're stressing about how to explain me to your old man," I broke the silence, "I can provide script consultation. I've written this 'bad boy brings mysterious woman home' scenario a thousand times. Usually you've got three options—"
"Vivienne."
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
I very wisely shut up.
But in my peripheral vision, I clearly caught his rigid jaw relax by half an inch.
I didn't speak again, turning my gaze back to the tree shadows outside. The silence continued, but that crushing low pressure had dissipated.
I settled back in my seat. One small psychological victory.
The car stopped at the marble steps of the main building.
Sasha got out first and opened our doors. But he made no move to follow. He retreated straight back to the Bentley, hands clasped in front of him like a cold stone statue. Clearly, he had no intention of crossing that threshold.
The Volkov mansion was more classical than I'd imagined—and more oppressive.
Gray stone walls. Symmetrical windows. A flag I didn't recognize hanging from the portico.
As I climbed the steps, I instinctively straightened my spine and switched my clutch to my left hand. Mrs. Gable's words echoed in my ears. "Always keep your right hand free. It's etiquette. It's also instinct."
The old lady probably didn't know that today, for me, that advice was pure survival tactics.
Peter Volkov stood at the entrance to the main hall.
Up close, he looked older than when I'd glimpsed him from across the room at the gala.
But that wasn't weakness—it was a ruthlessness honed over decades, completely unreadable.
He had the same dark gray eyes as Nikolai.
The only difference? Nikolai's sometimes held a trace of human warmth. Peter's eyes were a dry well.
"Nikolai." He opened his arms. A perfunctory embrace that barely touched shoulders.
Then the dry well turned toward me.
"And this—your fiancée?" He barely emphasized "fiancée." His gaze assessed me like merchandise up for auction.
Right. I knew it. I shouldn't have harbored any fantasy that these old-money types—especially mob ones—might be approachable.
"Vivienne Cole." I extended my hand first. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Volkov."
He shook it. The grip was perfectly calibrated, but his eyes lingered on my face two seconds too long.
"Cole." He chewed on my surname. "Common stock?"
"Yes. Common. And penniless." I met his gaze, smile precise. "So I've got nothing to lose, which makes me pretty hard to swallow. Wouldn't you say?"
Beside me, I clearly felt Nikolai's tense arm muscles relax by half an inch.
Peter stared at me for two seconds. A short, cold laugh rolled from his throat.
"Interesting."
He released my hand, turned, and led us inside.
What that "interesting" meant, I couldn't judge. But I decided to take it as a compliment for now.
Mr. Volkov excused himself to "talk privately," pulling Nikolai upstairs.
I stood in the absurdly large living room, watching their backs disappear around the staircase.
This place didn't feel like a home—more like a lifeless private museum.
Dark oil paintings covered every wall, heavy mahogany furniture, that grand piano in the corner probably hadn't made a sound in twenty years.
Even the flowers on the windowsill were dried out.
I'd just set my clutch on the sofa armrest when footsteps came from the side door.
Derek Volkov.
Fuck. Like a bad penny.
He sauntered in with half a glass of whiskey, suit jacket unbuttoned. For once, that skeletal supermodel wasn't hanging off his arm. His eyes swept over me, lips curling into that stomach-turning smirk.
"Vivienne." He deliberately lowered his voice, thinking he sounded seductive. "What a coincidence."
"What are you doing here?" I said coldly.
"This is my house. Why wouldn't I be here?" He stepped closer, his gaze dragging lecherously from my neckline to my hemline, eyes sticky with revulsion. "But you... dressed like that, showing up here... what, still carrying a torch for me?"
I didn't even bother rolling my eyes. I grabbed my clutch and moved. Breathing the same air as him made me feel oxygen-deprived.
But he took a large step, blocking my path entirely.
"Don't be so cold." He leaned in, expensive cologne mixed with sour alcohol fumes assaulting my nostrils. "We're... old friends, after all."
"Get out of my way."
"Listen, V." Instead of backing off, he pressed closer, his tone carrying a nauseating mix of condescension and desperation.
"I made a mistake. I was blind not to see how hot you are.
Chloe's boring as hell. Now the old man and Nikolai aren't here—stop playing games.
I know you still want me. Come on, babe, there's a guest room right there. Quick. Nobody will know—"
I stared at him hard.
Bile rose in my throat.
Rage surged from my chest. Not because he wanted me back—that just made me sick—but because of how he treated marriage, how he treated Chloe, like she was some used rag he could toss aside.
I suddenly remembered Chloe at the charity gala, arm linked through his, that proud expression on her face, the way she'd flaunted her ring with such satisfaction. She probably thought she'd won, thought stealing Derek was victory.
But now? Derek stood here saying he "didn't bring her," like her existence was optional, like marriage was just a contract he could tear up anytime.
I didn't feel sorry for Chloe—she deserved exactly this. But this attitude toward women, toward commitment, filled me with bone-deep fury.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Derek blinked, clearly not expecting my reaction.
"Vivienne, just listen—"
"Shut your filthy mouth." I ground my teeth. "You think saying 'I made a mistake' erases the fact that you cheated and sent me sex photos? Derek, how pathetic are you? Does Chloe know you're standing here wagging your tail at your ex-fiancée like a dog in heat?"
His face instantly turned the color of a bruised liver. "What happens between me and Chloe is none of your—"
"Of course it's not." I gave a cold laugh. "I'm just suddenly grateful to God. He took you—this spineless worm who treats marriage like trash and women like objects—and gave you precisely to her. You two are perfect for each other."
"You bitch—" Fury flashed in Derek's eyes as he lurched forward a step, his glass sloshing violently.
But he didn't get close.
"What's going on here?"