Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Vivienne
Sunlight slammed through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the bedroom carpet, bright enough to make me squint.
Nikolai had left at the crack of dawn to handle some emergency at the docks, and for once, the entire estate had fallen into something that could almost be called peaceful.
Sophia walked in with fresh linens just as I was sprawled—zero dignity—in the dark blue velvet armchair by the window that had been custom-made for me. Minutes later, Mary snuck in with a plate of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls and tea.
"Ms. Cole, you have no idea—old Mr. Volkov called his private doctor the second you and Mr. Volkov left.
" Mary munched on a cinnamon roll, voice dropping to a whisper, eyes bright as headlights.
"The whole estate's buzzing. They're saying the new bride can tear a wolf's hide off with her bare hands. "
I laughed out loud and took a sip of tea. "That's ridiculous, Mary. I was just stating facts. And for the record, he provoked me first."
Sophia was methodically polishing the silver by the fireplace.
At that, she just quirked her lips. The old woman had been with the Volkov family for thirty years—she kept her words few, but every one hit the mark.
"Old Mr. Volkov's been stubborn his whole life, surrounded by obedient sheep.
When Mr. Volkov seized power back then, same playbook.
Direct. Bloody. Last night's performance? Right up his alley."
I raised an eyebrow and grabbed my leather notebook, scribbling down everything they'd mentioned about the old Volkov family rules and ancient gossip. Pure gold for my serial novel's background material.
"Ms. Cole, what are you always writing in that thing?" Mary leaned over, craning her neck. "Last Wednesday night, I walked past the study and heard typing like a machine gun. Sounded intense."
"Writing a novel." I shrugged, honest. "Making some side cash."
"Ooh! Romance?" Mary's eyes went full sparkle, hands clasped to her chest, drowning in pink bubbles. "Is there a male lead? What's he like? Does he have broad shoulders and abs that make you nosebleed like a Hollywood star?"
My fingers froze. My ears started burning.
My brain reflexively conjured Nikolai's aggressive, tattooed, scarred, powerful body.
"Just a regular fictional character." I tried to cover, guilt written all over me.
Sophia sipped her tea with a knowing look, eyes sliding over my blazing earlobes. She said nothing, but that smile dripped with mockery.
"Speaking of Mr. Volkov, though..." Mary dusted crumbs off her hands and dropped a bomb. "Yesterday afternoon, I saw him alone in the main study, holding that notebook of yours. He sat in that big chair reading it forever, expression scary as hell. I brought in coffee and was scared to death."
My china cup crashed onto the saucer, tea splashing and scalding my fingers. I didn't even wipe it off.
"You're sure it was my notebook?" My voice shot up half an octave, heart doing parkour in my chest.
"Positive, Ms. Cole." Mary thumped her chest. "That pink flamingo sticker on the cover? Only one in the whole estate."
Shit. Code Red.
I was screwed.
After Sophia and Mary left, I buried my face in my hands and groaned.
What was in my notebook? Besides scraps of mafia rules, everything else was serialized chapters based on Nikolai!
The male lead Aleksei had his exact silver hair and dark gray eyes, the same control issues and sharp tongue. Even our frenzy in the airplane bathroom, the crisis during the territory inspection, last night's blazing entanglement in the car—I'd recorded it all in the bluntest language possible.
And he'd read it. All of it.
God. I wanted to vanish.
I face-planted into my pillow and pummeled the bed.
But sitting around waiting for doom was never Vivienne Cole's style. After half an hour of freaking out in my room, I decided to go on the offensive and scope out the damage.
I crept out to the back garden on shaky legs. Old Andrew, the gardener, was trimming bushes with massive shears.
I grabbed the watering can and mindlessly drowned a pot of expensive orchids while my brain played a loop of Nikolai's cold face flipping through my R-rated chapters.
"Oh! Damn it! What are you doing?" Andrew roared in furious Russian and snatched the can from me.
The poor orchid had turned into a swamp.
The old man glared at me like I was insane, waving his shears and booting me out of his greenhouse.
Round one: total failure.
I bit my lip and slunk back to the second-floor library in the main building. Sophia was in her signature black apron, methodically dusting thick leather spines.
"Hey, Sophia," I sidled up, leaning stiffly against a shelf, trying to sound casual. "Nice weather today, huh... By the way, when Nikolai's really pissed, does he usually just pull his gun, or does he have someone prep the cement first?"
Sophia stopped. Those sharp eyes that saw everything scraped across my face and landed on my fingers, practically shredding my hem.
She sighed and tapped my wrist with her cloth. "Out, child. There are pastries in the kitchen. Go eat. Stop circling here."
Kicked out again.
I deflated completely and slumped onto an iron bench in the courtyard, sighing dramatically.
On my tenth sigh, steady footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway.
Sasha.
The former special ops soldier carried a black file folder, heading straight across the courtyard to his car.
Perfect!
"Sasha! Wait!" I sprang off the bench and blocked his path.
Sasha stopped. His expressionless stone face tilted down, cold gray eyes locking onto me.
"What?"
"Be honest with me, Sasha." I swallowed, fingers going cold. "How's Nikolai's mood been lately? Has he had that look like he wants to chop someone up and dump them in the Potomac?"
Sasha's eyelid twitched ever so slightly.
He studied me with the strangest expression.
I swear to God, a flicker of wicked amusement passed through that cold bastard's eyes.
"Mr. Volkov spent two hours in his study yesterday, Ms. Cole.
" Sasha's voice was flat, no inflection.
"Didn't say a word. Usually, when the Pakhan gets that quiet, the New Jersey docks sprout a few more bodies in cement shoes.
If you did something bad... I suggest you butter him up. He likes honey cakes."
Screw your cement shoes.
Sasha's icy threat sent my scalp tingling. I couldn't think straight.
I bolted to the kitchen and used every ounce of charm and triple-salary leverage to force the head chef to whip up authentic Russian honey cakes in half an hour.
Four p.m., the black Bentley glided into the estate.
Hearing the heavy walnut door to the main study open, my heart nearly leapt out of my throat.
I took a deep breath, carefully balancing the delicate pastry plate, and shuffled to the study door. I knocked with my knuckles.
"Come in."
That signature metallic baritone rumbled through the door.
I pushed it open. Nikolai sat behind that massive walnut desk.
His bespoke vest was buttoned to perfection, tie loosened slightly, brow heavy.
At the sound, he didn't look up. Just slowly flipped through a file, radiating suffocating high-pressure dominance.
Dead silence filled the air.
I shuffled over and gingerly set the plate on the corner of the desk. "So... my dear boss, you've been working hard. I had the kitchen make you honey cakes."
Nikolai finally put down his pen.
He slowly lifted his eyelids. Those deep, cold gray eyes locked onto my face. Then his long fingers reached out and, excruciatingly slowly, pushed that notebook with the childish flamingo sticker across the desk toward me.
What?
When did he go to my room and take my notebook?
I almost screamed.
But before I could speak, he did.
"Vivienne," he said, voice low, rough with a bone-chilling edge of danger. "Do you know what happens in Bratva rules when someone privately records the Pakhan's internal operations—or even... extremely intimate personal details?"
Oh God.
I just wrote a novel. Is it really that serious?
I'd rehearsed a whole speech, but the second I met those overwhelming eyes, I forgot everything.
I guiltily avoided his gaze, fingers nervously picking at my skirt, stammering out a weak defense. "That... that's artistic license. I swear I hid all the real locations, and I changed your name to Aleksei. Nobody's going to connect you to a romance novel hero..."
"Artistic license?" Nikolai raised an eyebrow.
His slender fingers tapped the flamingo sticker, tone deliberate but laced with lethal pressure. "So in Chapter 14, when 'Aleksei' grips the heroine's waist in the back of an armored car and ruthlessly drives into her, forcing her to bite his shoulder... that's also artistic license?"
My face erupted in flames, toes curling in my shoes.
"That was... market demand!" I shot back, face burning, lunging for the notebook. "Readers love sexually charged scenes! You don't understand the novel market—give it back!"
Nikolai effortlessly raised his arm, letting me miss completely.
Not only did he not return it, he flipped it open with one hand. Those gray eyes glinted with wicked mischief, and then—he actually read my exact lines out loud!
"'The old knife scar on his solid abs glistened with sweat, radiating lethal pheromones.
His beast-like stamina nearly made me pass out, but he wouldn't let me escape...
'" He paused, gaze shifting from page to my face, about to combust, amusement deep enough to drown in.
"Seems I performed well last night. You assessed my scar trajectory and endurance so meticulously, fiancée. "
My rational thread snapped.
A whole day of accumulated fear, plus being publicly humiliated right now, fermented instantly into pure rage and mortification.