Chapter 7 – Dimitri
I spend the entire morning locked in my private office, drowning in transactions, contracts, and the endless files Sylvester keeps sliding across my desk like offerings to a god he’s afraid to disappoint.
The numbers behave.
People don’t.
I sign off on three acquisitions, reject two sloppy proposals, and tear apart a report someone clearly thought I wouldn’t read closely. Amateurs. Half the world fears my name, yet these idiots still test me.
But there’s one file on the edge of my table that I don’t touch.
I don’t have to.
I’ve had it for weeks—months, really. I’ve memorized every page, every line, every lie dressed up as truth. Still, I keep it right there, within reach, like a splinter beneath the skin.
A reminder.
Of what I’m supposed to do.
Of who I’m supposed to punish.
It’s the Laurent family case file.
The Manila folder is worn at the edges from how often I’ve opened it. Inside are court documents, forged emails, and photos of men in prison uniforms—men who should never have seen the inside of a cell.
One of my companies—one of my few legitimate ventures—was gutted by Laurent Bank’s manipulation. A quiet little massacre done in suits and handshakes. By the time the truth surfaced, the damage was irreversible.
Hundreds of employees were thrown out on the street.
And one of my closest friends….
He didn’t survive the fallout.
The Laurents, with their spotless reputation and polished smiles, covered their tracks perfectly. Not a single stain stuck to them.
Bastards.
And my brothers try to make me feel guilty for marrying Vivian?
Never.
She was a part of this. Always has been.
Vivian’s father might have signed the papers, might have orchestrated the entire operation, but I remember the daughter too well.
The elegant little socialite standing beside him at charity events, smiling like a princess.
At every press conference where Laurent would sit there and blatantly lie about what happened—about what they did—Vivian would be right beside him.
Smiling.
Nodding.
Performing innocence while her father ruined people’s lives with a pen stroke.
My friend’s life.
Hundreds of livelihoods.
My company.
But the public ate it up. Of course they did. The Laurents were untouchable. Golden. Beloved.
I grip the edge of my desk, forcing my jaw to unclench.
They think I’m cruel for marrying her? For binding her to me, for using her name as the leash I’ll drag her father with?
They weren’t there. They didn’t watch a good man fall apart. They didn’t watch families lose everything. They didn’t bury a friend.
But I did.
And I swore then—on my blood, on my name—that the Laurents would one day pay.
And now they will.
Starting with the daughter who stood beside her father and smiled while he destroyed everything I built.
“Are you okay?”
I look up.
Sylvester is standing there, brows drawn tight, eyes flicking to my hand.
The Laurent case file.
I don’t even remember reaching for it.
I drop it instantly, like it just burned through my skin.
“Fine.”
I snatch my glass and finish the vodka in one swallow. It scorches down my throat, but not enough to quiet anything.
Sylvester steps closer, voice low. “Is this really about punishing Henri Laurent…or Vivian?”
My jaw flexes.
“I’m punishing the name,” I bite out.
But the second the words leave my mouth, she flashes through my mind—Vivian Laurent in all her contradictions.
That stubborn chin raised like she thinks she can challenge me.
The slight tremor in her voice when she tries to hide fear.
The blaze in her eyes when she forgets she’s supposed to be fragile.
I blink hard, shoving the image away like it’s an inconvenience.
A distraction.
A problem I refuse to acknowledge.
“I’m punishing the family,” I repeat, colder this time, even though she’s still there behind my eyelids, refusing to disappear.
As I drive home later that evening, my head is full of thoughts I refuse to indulge.
Vivian. Vivian. Vivian.
It’s been days since our wedding, and we’ve barely exchanged more than a glare and a few clipped words. Every time our eyes meet, she’s defiant, furious, stubborn as a storm. It makes me laugh—little minx. She’s fire in flesh, and I haven’t even begun to scorch her.
I arrive at the penthouse, press the elevator button, and wait. When the doors slide open—and I freeze.
A party is raging in my own home. My carefully maintained sanctuary of glass, steel, and absolute control has been invaded.
Socialites swarm the space, champagne glasses in hand, skirts swirling, collars tight, smiles bright and practiced.
Some of the women I recognize from charity events and galas, their names whispered like currency; the men are familiar too—deal-makers, influencers, opportunists who think proximity to me equals power.
Laughter ricochets off the walls. Music pulses from speakers I didn’t authorize. Waiters weave through the crowd, balancing trays of caviar and crystal flutes, while a cluster of the braver ones toast in my direction as if I were just another guest.
And in the middle of it all, the nerve—someone has set up a small dance floor.
High heels click against my polished marble, syncing with the low thrum of bass.
Women sway like they’re auditioning for the devil; men lean too close, their cologne and arrogance thick in the air.
They flirt, they laugh, they touch—like my penthouse is some public lounge instead of the one place in this world that belongs only to me.
Then the crowd parts.
And Vivian steps through.
Red dress. Tight, sinful, soft satin that hugs every curve like it was stitched directly onto her skin. I get an instant hard-on—violent and inconvenient—because of course she picks tonight to look like a walking temptation.
Her hips sway like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Like she planned it. There’s a bold, challenging smile on her face, and a wine flute dangling from her fingers as she glides toward me with deliberate grace.
She doesn’t stop walking until her body is pressed against mine—breasts flush to my chest, hips aligned, breath warm. She loops her arms around my neck like she owns the right to touch me like this. And then she tilts her face up, lashes lowered in a look that would melt a weaker man.
“Why do you look so shocked, husband?”
Her voice is sweet venom. My hands twitch at my sides.
“What is this, Vivian?”
She shrugs, all innocent mischief and calculated rebellion.
“Just thought I’d throw a little party. You know…what a good wife would do. Uphold our reputation.” Her smile sharpens. “We wouldn’t want people thinking there’s an issue in our marriage, do we?”
My jaw clenches so hard tension shoots down my neck.
She laughs. Actually laughs. The sound slips down my spine like a blade.
“Vivian, this is my home,” I say, low and dangerous. “I have never brought strangers here. This place is a sanctuary.”
“It’s my home now, too,” she fires back, voice soft but lethal. “I’m your wife, aren’t I?”
Before I can reply, she pulls me closer by the nape of my neck and presses a slow, mocking kiss to my cheek—like she’s claiming me.
Like she’s flipping the dynamic.
Like she wants war. And fuck, I want to chase everyone out of the room with a gun and take her right here on the floor.
She pulls back, releasing me with a smirk that makes my blood simmer.
“Now let’s not be rude,” she says, brushing a finger along my jaw. “Go say hi to the guests.”
With a wink, she turns and disappears into the crowd—red dress blazing like a warning flare.
My wife.
My enemy.
My problem.
And I’ve never wanted to ruin someone more.
My first instinct is to toss every single one of them out—glitter, champagne, fake laughter and all. I’m not afraid to be the villain. Hell, I prefer it. Wearing that title fits me better than any suit in my closet.
But I don’t want to embarrass Vivian.
The realization punches me hard enough that I freeze mid-stride. Since when do I care about sparing her feelings? Since never. Yet here I am, watching her instead of bulldozing the room like I normally would.
I spot her easily—she’s with Sienna and Elara in a corner, the three of them drinking and laughing like this is some club and not my private sanctuary. If I shut down the party now, I’ll ruin her night. The idea irritates me more than it should.
My second instinct is to turn around, walk to my room, slam the door, and pretend none of this exists. Let the music pulse through the walls. Let the strangers spill wine on my floors. Let the headache grow.
But then I see a man. Tall. Watching Vivian. Following her movements like a shadow that wasn’t invited. He’s not touching her, not talking to her—but he’s hovering.
My entire body goes still.
New instinct unlocked.
I change course and head for the bar instead, planting myself where I can watch both Vivian and the idiot who thinks he can orbit her without consequence.
I order a drink I don’t taste, because my focus is razor-sharpened on them.
I’m waiting.
Waiting for him to get close.
Waiting for him to brush her arm.
Waiting for him to say one word to her.
Just one excuse. Because the moment he crosses a line, he’s mine.
Soon, Vivian turns around and motions for the guy to come closer.
My frown is instant.
She knows him?
She’s aware this bastard has been following her around?
Heat sluices through my blood—sharp, territorial, unreasonable. She hasn’t looked for me once since I stepped in. Not a glance. Not a flicker of awareness. But she’s over there talking to some young pretty-boy like he matters?
The irritation is a living thing.
Fortunately for me, the man peels away from her and heads to the bar. I grip my glass so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter in my hand. When he gets close, he pauses—sees me—but doesn’t falter. Brave. Or stupid. Could go either way.
He stops a few feet away and nods politely.
“Good evening, Mr. Rusnak.”