Chapter 6 – Vivian
The morning after the wedding feels like waking inside a gilded prison. The penthouse is quiet except for the soft hum of the city below, a constant reminder that life is moving, indifferent to my misery.
I sit by the window, legs curled beneath me, still in my wedding-night lingerie—untouched, unwanted, humiliated. The silk grazes my skin like a cruel reminder of what should’ve been a night of celebration, not this slow-burning torment.
Since Dimitri left in the elevator, I haven’t seen him. The thought should bring relief—he didn’t touch me, didn’t claim me—but instead, it stings. He did it with such cold precision, leaving me there to simmer in my own anger and frustration. Pride bruised. Desire confused. Fear creeping.
What a bastard.
My fingers trace the edge of the glass window, and I can’t stop replaying his words, his tone, the way he smirked at me as if I were already his property. Every memory feels sharp, like the edges of broken crystal.
I press my forehead to the glass, trying to will myself into calm. Not tonight. Not yet. But I already feel the war has begun, and I’m standing in the center of it, unarmed.
I close my eyes, inhaling the city air, bitter and electric. The truth settles in my chest: this man is a storm, and I’ve been swept into it.
And somehow…somehow, I know this is only the beginning.
I hear the front door open, followed by footsteps. I sit up instantly, heart leaping to my throat, and hurry out of my room—ready to confront Dimitri.
Ready to tear into him for leaving me here.
Ready to regain even a shred of control.
I don’t know what I’m going to say yet, but I know the moment I see him, the spiteful words will fly out of me without effort.
But when I burst out of the hallway, it isn’t Dimitri standing there.
It’s an elderly woman in a crisp uniform, calmly adjusting the flowers on the console table. Her gaze lifts—and then drops straight down my body.
Only then do I register what I’m wearing.
Sheer-lace wedding-night lingerie.
Almost nothing.
Absolutely not appropriate for…this.
“Oh God,” I whisper, mortified.
The woman gives me a warm, grandmotherly smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Rusnak.”
My soul just…departs. Leaves my body. Gone.
“God, no,” I choke out. “Please—call me Vivian.”
“Of course, dear.” She nods gently. “My name is Lila. I’m the house help. You can go back inside—I’ll handle everything out here.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, fleeing back into my room like someone lit a match to the floor.
Over the next few minutes, I hear more doors, more voices—staff coming in and out.
A cook.
Guards.
Someone unloading groceries.
Every time a sound echoes through the penthouse, I freeze—but there’s no way I’m stepping out there again.
By the time I finally change into a dress and start considering what to do with myself, there’s a knock on my door.
I frown and pull it open. Amy—the cook—is standing there with a shy smile.
“Miss Rus—Vivian,” she corrects quickly. “Mr. Rusnak asked me to tell you…he’d like you to come out for breakfast.”
My heart slams painfully against my ribs.
Dimitri is back.
Of course he is.
“I’ll be right there, Amy.”
“Thank you.”
She slips away, and I shut the door gently, inhale deeply, and brace myself. If he wants a war, he’s about to get one.
I check my reflection in the mirror—quickly, angrily.
My hair is fine. My face is fine.
I swipe on another layer of lip gloss, more forceful than necessary, like shiny lips could somehow form a shield against Dimitri Rusnak.
Then I square my shoulders and walk out of the room.
The penthouse feels too big, too quiet, too expensive for oxygen.
When I reach the dining area, I stop—because he’s already there.
Dimitri sits at the long glass table like he owns the entire world and is bored with it.
Shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, expensive watch glinting, blond hair slightly mussed like he ran a hand through it on his way in.
He looks like sin.
Sin wearing control like a second skin.
He lifts his gaze to me.
No smile.
Just possession.
I force my legs to move and lower myself into the chair opposite him.
The air between us feels electric—charged with anger, defiance, and a thread of something I hate myself for noticing.
Amy and two other staff slip in silently, placing dish after dish onto the table—fresh pastries, fruit, eggs, coffee, things I’m too keyed up to even look at.
The moment they finish arranging everything, they vanish discreetly, leaving me alone with the man who’s turned my life into a nightmare.
Silence settles.
Tense.
Tight.
He watches me like he’s waiting for me to break.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
We eat in silence.
Not peaceful silence—no, this one is sharp, serrated, cutting at every inch of calm I’m pretending to have.
Every clink of his fork feels intentional.
Every sip of his coffee feels like a warning.
When I finally push my plate away, he’s already setting his napkin down.
He rises from his chair with effortless grace and turns to leave, as if I’m nothing more than background noise in his immaculate world.
“Hey.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
He pauses mid-stride…then turns.
Those cold, winter-dark eyes meet mine.
“Why are you doing this?” My voice cracks, anger and fear tangling together. “Why marry me?”
For a moment, he says nothing.
Then:
“Because revenge tastes better when the world believes it’s love.”
There’s no emotion in his tone—just ice.
Sharp.
Final.
He steps closer, just enough to crowd the air around me.
“You’ll be paraded on my arm,” he says quietly. “My wife. The Laurent jewel worn by a Rusnak. The world will celebrate it as a union of peace between two dynasties.”
My breath catches.
“And behind closed doors?” he adds. “Your family’s reputation will crumble under my ownership.”
My spine stiffens, fury trembling through my veins.
He straightens his cuffs, calm as ever.
“You asked why,” he finishes, gaze pinning me in place. “That’s your answer.”
A laugh slips out of me—brittle, humorless, sharp enough to cut skin.
“Then you should’ve married my father,” I say, lifting my chin. “He’s the one who plays your games, not me.”
Dimitri stills.
Then he steps closer.
Closer.
Until I can feel the heat of him, until the room seems too small to contain his shadow.
His voice drops, a blade sliding between my ribs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you’ll bleed for his sins all the same.”
My breath stutters.
Not from fear.
From fury so white-hot it scorches.
This man isn’t here to ruin a family alone.
He’s here to ruin me.
His eyes flick down my face—slow, claiming, merciless—before he straightens and turns away like he didn’t just split me open with a sentence.
I stand there for a beat, breath trapped in my chest, heat clawing up my throat. Then I spin on my heel and march down the hallway, every step louder than the last. My vision blurs, but I blink hard, refusing the sting.
I will not cry.
Not for him.
Not because of him.
He doesn’t get to do that to me. He doesn’t get to carve me open and walk away like I’m nothing. I won’t give him that kind of power. Not today. Not ever.
I push into my room and slam the door before my knees can wobble. My fists clench. My chest rises and falls too fast. And God, the tears are right there, but I swallow them down like poison, forcing myself to breathe through the burn.
What can I do to prove to this bastard that I’m more than a pawn?
That I’m not some woman he can subjugate or bend to his will?
I’m my own damn boss—no matter the trap, no matter the pressure, no matter how hard he tries to shove me into a corner.
I don’t need his approval.
I don’t need his permission.
And I sure as hell don’t need his protection.
If he wants to see who I am, then he’s going to see everything—the sharp edges, the stubbornness, the fire he keeps trying to stamp out. I’ll show him with every decision I make, every step I take, every time I refuse to cower when he expects me to fold.
He thinks he holds the strings?
Fine. Let him believe that.
I’ll cut them one by one until he’s the one tangled and choking.
I’ll stand my ground.
I’ll win.
And he’ll have no choice but to look at me—not as something to use, but as someone he can’t control, can’t predict, can’t break.
I’ll prove it the only way that counts:
By refusing to be small.
By refusing to be scared.
By refusing him.
He wants a pawn? He’s about to meet the queen.