Chapter 3 – Dimitri
The Metropolitan Club is a cathedral of old money: mahogany walls, oil paintings of dead men, candles flickering against chandeliers designed to make lesser men feel small. It’s perfect. The kind of place the wealthy trust. The kind of place where they think they’re safe.
The kind of place where I love to take everything from them.
I sit at the long, polished table with three of their lawyers—gray-haired, self-important men who think they understand power because they’ve breathed secondhand wealth their whole lives.
They straighten their ties every five minutes and keep glancing at the documents in front of me like they expect me to kiss the pages.
If only they knew.
The marriage contract sits between us. Thick. Heavy. Stamped with the Laurent crest. The price listed at the top is laughable—at least compared to what I offered.
I waited, of course.
I let everyone else fight over her like dogs snapping at scraps. Watched the highest bidder—some Swiss aristocrat with too much ego and not enough spine—place his offer.
Then I tripled it.
The room went silent.
The bid was accepted.
The lawyers congratulated themselves.
Henri Laurent must be celebrating right now, thinking he’s secured his little empire’s salvation.
He has no idea. The name on the bid wasn’t mine. I forged it so Henri would never suspect it was me. A Rusnak. I look down at the stack of documents now being pushed toward me with reverent hands.
“Mr. Volkov,” one of the lawyers says—the alias I used. “If you’ll sign here, we’ll finalize your acquisition of the marriage contract. The family will be notified within the hour.”
Acquisition.
Marriage.
Same word, different spelling.
I pick up the pen, twirling it between my fingers. The air feels heavy with expectation. With victory.
Slowly—deliberately—I press the pen to the signature line.
And I sign my real name.
Dimitri Rusnak.
If I could be a fly on the wall when this hits Henri Laurent’s desk—when he sees the name on the contract—when he realizes exactly who he sold his daughter to….
God.
The satisfaction would taste like blood and champagne.
He can’t back out now. The deal is done. Lawyers are witnesses. Signatures are binding.
I cap the pen and hand it back, leaning lazily in my chair while they shuffle paperwork with trembling fingers.
“Is everything in order?” I ask, voice smooth.
“Yes, sir,” one lawyer says. “We’ll notify the Laurents immediately. Their daughter will be informed, and preparations will begin.”
I smile slowly.
Good.
Let Vivian Laurent find out she’s been bought.
Let her understand that every step she takes from now on…is a step closer to me.
The door shuts behind the last lawyer, the echo still hanging in the candlelit room when Sylvester pushes off the wall and approaches. He’s been silent the whole time—statues don’t cast judgment, but Sylvester always does.
“You’re making her pay for a sin she didn’t commit,” he says quietly.
I don’t even look at him as I down the rest of my drink. My reply is glacial. “She’s a Laurent. That’s sin enough.”
Sylvester exhales through his nose. He’s a strategist wearing the skin of an executioner—razor-sharp where I’m ruthless, logical where I prefer instinct. When I want silence, Sylvester gives me logic, and I hate that even more than my enemies sometimes.
“Have you informed your brothers?” Sylvester asks.
“Not yet.” I stand, buttoning my jacket with unhurried precision. “I have an art gala to attend tonight. I’ll talk to them tomorrow.”
I walk out of the Metropolitan Club like a man stepping into his own kingdom—because as far as I’m concerned, I am.
By the time I enter the art gallery that evening, my mood has already soured. Galas like this are always the same—gaudy rooms, overpriced sculptures, and people pretending culture makes them interesting.
Just because I can appreciate art doesn’t mean I enjoy the crowd. These events are filled with rich snobs who weigh your pockets before they even say hello.
My plan is simple: Stay an hour, greet the host, donate a few million, disappear.
The moment I step into the hall, I feel it—the shift. Heads turn. Eyes lock. Whispers flicker like sparks. And then the women notice me.
One pair of eyes becomes two, then ten…until half the room is watching me with calculated interest. The first one drifts toward me, then another, then another—like moths lured toward a flame that will burn them if they get too close.
I don’t slow down. I don’t smile. I don’t encourage. But they come anyway. They always do.
I head for the drink stand, scanning the bottles lined up. No vodka. Of course. These pretentious events never have anything worth drinking. I settle for a random cocktail—anything to take the edge off.
“Coming right up,” the bartender says.
I don’t care what he hands me. I just need something.
“Hi, handsome.”
I turn my head slowly.
A woman stands beside me, shoulders pulled back to show off her dress—an elegant piece, but her expression ruins the effect. She looks at me like she paid for the right to fuck me on the spot.
Her smile is greedy. Hungry. Calculated.
I give her a polite nod that’s more ice than courtesy. “Hello.”
“Dimitri, right?” she asks, stepping closer. Too close.
The bartender sets the glass down, and I take a long sip before answering. The drink is trash. Sweet, pointless. Typical.
“And you are?”
“Chloe.” She extends a hand, tilting her chin like she expects me to kiss it. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Of course she has. I shake her hand. Briefly.
Chloe launches straight into chatter—her work in fashion, her charity board, her recent trip to Paris. None of it interests me. Her perfume is too floral. Her laughter too forced. And for every sentence she adds, my attention retreats farther.
She keeps talking. My boredom spreads like winter frost.
She laughs again—loud, performative—touching my arm like she’s marking territory she hasn’t earned.
I look down at her hand—just look.
And she snatches it away instantly.
Good.
Maybe she’ll take the hint.
She doesn’t. She keeps talking.
And talking.
And talking.
Her voice drills into my skull, and for a moment, I sincerely wish someone would walk into this room and blow my head off. At least I’d finally have some peace.
I glance toward the exit, already calculating the cleanest way to disappear without anyone stopping me. I’m two seconds from leaving this circus behind when—she walks in.
And everything in me goes still.
My muscles lock.
My breath stops.
My entire body snaps tight like a wire pulled to breaking.
Vivian Laurent.
My wife.
A slow, amused laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Sharp. Disbelieving. A private joke between me and fate.
“What is it?” Chloe asks, touching my arm again.
I don’t even feel her hand. I’m too busy watching the woman who has no idea she already belongs to me.
Every head in the room turns toward Vivian as she steps inside. She absorbs attention effortlessly—without trying, without wanting it. The air shifts around her, hungry and reverent.
And something primal and violent coils inside me.
I want to gouge out the eyes of every man staring at her. Rip their admiration out of their throats and scatter it at her feet.
She’s mine. Even though she’s blissfully unaware she just agreed to marry the man who once ruined her in a stable over a year ago.
Vivian pauses near the center of the gallery, scanning the crowd—poised, elegant, regal in a way that makes the rest of the room look cheap.
Then she stops to speak to a man. Some asshole in a suit—too close, too eager, already smiling down at her like he deserves her time.
My jaw grinds. I set my drink down. Hard.
The glass thuds against the counter, and Chloe flinches like she’s been slapped. I don’t spare her a glance. I peel her hand off my arm and start walking—slow, deliberate steps that feel like the entire room is shifting out of my way.
I aim straight for Vivian and the idiot standing too close to her.
Fortunately for him, they break apart before I reach them. He walks off, oblivious. Lucky bastard. Another five seconds and I would’ve given him a reason to develop lifelong instincts about staying the hell away from what’s mine.
Vivian turns.
Our gazes collide. She stops breathing. Good. Very good.
I don’t stop walking until I’m close enough to feel her exhale tremble against my chest. Up close, she’s even more exquisite than I remember—delicate curves begging for possession, golden-brown bob brushing her jaw in soft, perfect lines, eyes like sharpened emeralds that flash between fear and fury.
She looks like wealth.
Like legacy.
Like the empire I’m about to take in my hands and twist.
“I told you not to look so desperate to be ruined,” I murmur, leaning in just enough for only her to hear me. “And yet here we are…all set to be married.”
Her eyes fly wide—shock, outrage, disbelief hitting her all at once.
Before she can speak, a loud voice breaks in.
“Dimitri Rusnak!”
I turn slightly as the host approaches, beaming like a fool. Of course he’s excited—my name opens more doors than it closes.
But I’m watching Vivian.
Her porcelain skin goes several shades paler.
Her lips part.
Recognition hits her like a blow to the chest.
Rusnak.
She knows exactly what that means.
Exactly who I am.
And she knows her father sold her straight into the devil’s hands.
A spark of rage flashes across her face—bright, beautiful, defiant.
I smirk. Slow. Wicked. Claiming. “Welcome to the family, ma chère.”
The host, Dwayne Granger—billionaire tech founder, old-money golden boy, and self-appointed king of every room he walks into—reaches us with a broad, delighted smile.
“Vivian Laurent!” he says warmly.
Vivian forces a lovely smile in return, the kind society women are trained to wear even while drowning. She steps into his hug, polite and gentle.
A sliver of anger cuts through me.
I don’t show it.
But it’s there—sharp, territorial, unwelcome.
Dwayne releases her, then turns to me. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
“We do,” I say.
“We don’t!” Vivian snaps at the same time.
Dwayne’s brows lift as he looks between us. “Which one is it?”
Vivian takes a breath—tight, controlled. “I do not know this man.”
She says it like a curse, like a prayer—like a desperate wish.
Dwayne frowns. “That’s strange. The Rusnaks are well known. Dimitri very much so.”
He steps slightly to the side, positioning himself grandly, almost reverently.
“Vivian, allow me to introduce him properly,” Dwayne says, his tone swelling with pride.
“Dimitri Rusnak is one of the most powerful private investors in the world. Old-dynasty money from Russia and America. His family controls shipping routes, steel, pharmaceuticals, and half the infrastructural contracts in Russia, America, and Eastern Europe.”
Vivian stiffens.
I watch it happen like a slow, delicious tremor running through her spine.
Dwayne continues, oblivious to the tension strangling the air. “He’s funded some of the most influential tech expansions in the last decade. Heads of state court his attention. Entire industries adjust when he moves. People don’t just know him, Vivian—they follow his lead.”
Each word lands in her like a nail.
I let the smile tug slowly at my mouth. The kind that says she has no idea how many doors she’s already opened for me.
Vivian’s throat bobs.
Her eyes flick to mine—fear, fury, disbelief swirling like a storm.
I lean in just slightly, my voice low, silken, lethal. “Told you, ma chère. We know each other.”
Her lips part, trembling with rage.
Dwayne laughs, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “I swear, Dimitri, every time I introduce you to someone, they react like they’ve been caught in a hurricane.”
If only he knew.
And if only Vivian understood that the hurricane is standing right in front of her—and she’s already inside it.
“Dwayne.” She touches his arm lightly, and my gaze snaps to the point of contact. A soft, harmless gesture—yet it feels like a hand dragging over raw nerves. “Please, excuse me. I’ll be back.”
Her voice is smooth, sweet, polite…but her eyes are wide, frantic. She turns and walks out of the room, heels clicking too fast for someone trying to appear calm.
Dwayne watches her go, perplexed. “I wonder what’s wrong. She’s usually very composed and—”
“Excuse me, Dwayne.”
I cut him off with a nod and walk after her.
My stride is unhurried.
Controlled.
Predatory.
She can walk out of the room.
She can try to breathe.
She can attempt to escape the truth settling heavily on her chest.
But she can’t outrun me.
Not tonight.
Not ever again.
Enough running for you, Vivian.