Chapter 8 – Vivian
It’s morning, and I’m sitting across from Dimitri at the dining table, pretending to eat while my pulse behaves like it’s training for a marathon. After what happened last night…how he touched me…how I almost let him go further…I’d be insane not to be hyper-aware of him.
I’m playing a dangerous game. And he warned me to be careful.
We haven’t spoken since breakfast started.
Good. I can’t stand the bastard.
He finishes eating first and sets down his spoon. I see the shift in his posture from the corner of my eye—the slight tension, the way his attention drags to me.
“You didn’t introduce your bodyguard to me….”
I scoff under my breath. Maybe I didn’t. But Kyle told me they already met, and that he introduced himself. Not a big deal.
“You’ve met him already, haven’t you?”
“Only because he was smart enough to introduce himself before I put a bullet through his chest.”
My stomach drops. Breakfast instantly curdles. I look up at him fully.
“Really?”
He ignores my tone entirely. “The Orlando charity ball is tonight. We’ll attend together.”
My breath stutters.
Of course. A charity auction where my family used to hold influence.
The symbolism is painfully clear—he’s parading his triumph. Showing the world he owns the Laurents now.
“I don’t want to go.”
“I don’t remember asking, Vivian. Be ready by five.”
He stands and walks away, and I swear I almost throw my glass at the back of his stupid, arrogant head.
I push away from the table and march straight to my room, heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to punch out of my chest. As soon as I shut the door, I grab my phone and dial Elara with shaky fingers.
She picks up on the second ring. “Vivian?”
“Elara,” I groan, pacing. “Dimitri wants us to go to the Orlando charity ball tonight. I don’t want to. I really don’t want to.”
“Okay…” she says slowly, calm as ever. “Why don’t you want to go?”
“Because the whole city will be there!” My voice cracks. “No one knows about the auction, Elara. They’ll think I married Dimitri on my own. They’ll expect romance, smiles, hand-holding. I can’t even stand the guy, let alone pretend we’re in love in public!”
“You can do it, Viv,” she says softly. “Just try, okay? Holding hands. A kiss on the cheek. That’s all. Surely you can manage that.”
It’s not that I can’t.
It’s that I don’t want to.
“It’s hard, Elara. I hate him so much.”
She lets out a sympathetic sigh. “I’ll be there for you. Okay? We’ll all be there. Roman, Nikolai, Lev. The wives too. I don’t think you’ve met everyone properly.”
“I’m not sure they even like me,” I mutter. “At the wedding, no one spoke to me except you and Sasha.”
“I promise they’re all nice girls,” she says. “Really. You already know Sasha. The rest are just as sweet. They were all just…shocked at the wedding. It was so quick, and Dimitri didn’t tell them until the day before.”
I stop pacing and sit on the bed, rubbing my forehead. “Okay. I feel better knowing you’ll be there.”
“Good.” She pauses. Then her tone shifts—low, conspiratorial, almost wicked.
“Now listen. Dress to kill, Vivian. You’re going to be on Dimitri’s arm. Trust me—you want to be drop-dead gorgeous and have the cameras on you. Not him. Make him see you.”
A slow, conflicted warmth curls in my stomach at the thought.
Make him see me.
God help me—I want that a little too much.
***
By five, Kyle walks me to the garage. Dimitri is already there, waiting, his stance casual but deliberate. My friends have told me a thousand times that red is my color, so tonight, I chose red. The dress is flirtatious, provocative, but elegant—everything I want to say without speaking.
The elevator opens, and I step into the garage. Dimitri’s eyes widen as they take me in, like he’s measuring every curve, every line. Appreciation, hunger, control—all of it—flickers across his face.
Kyle stays back, giving me space. I walk toward Dimitri.
He wordlessly opens the passenger door and helps me in.
His touch is smooth, commanding, and I feel it linger longer than necessary.
Then he slips into the driver’s seat, dressed in a maroon suit that somehow perfectly matches the heat in his gaze. What a coincidence.
The engine hums as he starts the car, and we drive out of the garage in silence.
Then, finally, he looks at me. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice tight.
And then—silence again.
I can feel him watching me, every inch, every movement, but neither of us says another word. The tension between us is suffocating, charged, and I can’t decide whether I want it to break or to last forever.
We arrive when the event is in full swing. The red carpet stretches before us as the car slows to a stop. Celebrities and socialites are already there, competing with each other.
Dimitri turns to me. “Do you want to walk the carpet?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why? Because you’re with me?” His frown is sharp, accusatory. “You’ve never had a problem with it before.”
“And you know that how?”
“We’re walking the carpet,” he says, stepping out of the car. My anger rises as he walks around to open my door. His hand finds mine, firm, commanding. “Smile. We’re a loving couple, remember? First event out. Let’s make it count.”
I grit my teeth, but he doesn’t let go. A few steps in, and the paparazzi descend like predators. Flashes explode, questions fly.
How did we meet? Are we in love? Is this just a business arrangement?
Dimitri stays silent. Fine. Let him stay silent. I tilt my head, meet the camera lenses head-on, and answer for both of us.
“I’m going to answer this silly question once and for all. Are we in love? Answer it yourself.”
Before Dimitri can react, I stand on my tiptoes and press my lips to his. Just a short kiss, but it’s potent. I feel him stiffen, caught off guard, almost losing himself right there. I pull away, just enough, and give a small, victorious smile.
“Does that answer your question?” I say to the cameras. “And I hope no one asks me—or my husband—that stupid question ever again.”
We continue forward, hand in hand, walking into the event, leaving the paparazzi shocked and a little speechless. I feel the thrill of the moment, the power of control in my fingers, and the dangerous heat of Dimitri so close to me.
Once we’re safely inside, Dimitri turns to me, his gaze intense.
“Vivian….”
“What?” I shrug, tilting my head innocently. “You said to make it count.”
Before he can respond, we’re surrounded by the familiar faces of his brothers and their wives. The room hums with polite chatter and laughter, the kind that comes from people who’ve already carved out their alliances.
Elara appears beside me like a whirlwind, introducing me to the women, giving a quick, whispered rundown of who’s who. Dimitri drifts toward his brothers, their conversations sharp, clipped, but respectful.
I watch, quietly taking it all in. Elara was right—they’re genuinely sweet, welcoming. Warm. I feel a flicker of relief, almost as if I can breathe again.
The Rusnaks all share a long table draped in white linen and gold accents, each seat marked with elegant calligraphy. When I spot Vivian Rusnak written in front of my chair, my breath stutters.
Just like that—my identity rewritten. My life stamped with a name that isn’t really mine.
I’m seated between Dimitri and Elara. Dimitri on my left, Elara on my right.
Dimitri’s presence feels like heat licking at my skin, but I refuse to turn his way. I angle my body deliberately toward Elara, giving him nothing but the cold line of my shoulder.
Elara chats with me throughout the evening, telling jokes, telling stories about the brothers, making sure I never feel alone for even a second. She makes the night bearable. Almost enjoyable.
Every now and then, I feel Dimitri’s gaze burning holes through the side of my face. I ignore him.
He made himself a wall between us—fine. I can build one too.
I laugh softly at something Elara says, and Dimitri’s hand tightens around his wine glass.
Good.
Let him watch me choose where I give my attention.
Let him see I’m not the fragile doll he thought he married.
The night ends in a soft blur of laughter and warm air. We all spill outside together, the women drifting ahead, hand in hand, while the brothers follow a few steps behind. It’s…wholesome. Strange, but wholesome.
They accept me without hesitation, already talking about a weekend shopping trip, listing stores, shoes, bags. And I say yes. Because I love shopping. And because if I’m stuck in this family with this man for God knows how long, I might as well have allies—friends.
As they chat about outfits and where to go first, my phone buzzes.
Sienna.
Hey girl.
My lips tug into a faint smile. Sienna Roth—one of the few people I call my friend. Born into wealth, but built her own empire in the art world. A force of nature. We met years ago at an art gala and instantly clicked.
Hi Sienna. How are you?
Another buzz.
I’m at this art event…and overheard some people talking quietly. The Laurent fortune has been completely absorbed by Rusnak accounts—that Dimitri legally owns everything now. Is this true?
My stomach drops so fast the ground tilts.
Everything?
Everything?
I go silent, staring at the message as the women continue talking about new season collections and matching shoes. Their voices fade into static.
Behind us, Dimitri steps up beside me.
Ahead of us, his brothers disperse, waving and calling on their wives as they head to their cars.
I can’t react. Not here. Not in front of them.
So I say nothing.
I just stand there, phone in hand, pulse hammering in my throat as Dimitri places his hand on the small of my back—possessive, casual, like he owns that too—and guides me toward our car.
As soon as the car doors shut, I round on him—no breath, no hesitation, no fear.
“What did you do?” My voice cracks. “Tell me the truth, Dimitri. You now own all of the Laurents’ wealth?”
He doesn’t even flinch.
“Yes.”
Just that.
A clean, merciless blade of a word.
My breath stutters. “So it’s true? You took everything? Everything?”
“Yes.”
“Why? You’ve destroyed everything that I am!”
His eyes stay on the windshield, unreadable. “You were born on stolen gold, Vivian. I’m just taking it back.”
The world tilts. My pulse detonates.
I slap him—hard. The sound ricochets through the car. He doesn’t block it. Doesn’t grab me. Just absorbs it like stone.
His jaw flexes once before he murmurs, voice low, dark, infuriatingly calm: “You can hate me all you want, Vivian…but you’ll still come undone for me.”
“I hate you,” I whisper, shaking. “And I will never give you that satisfaction.”
He doesn’t bother responding. He just shifts the gear and floors the accelerator, tearing out of the parking garage.
The drive home is a graveyard. No words.
No glances. Nothing but silence thick enough to choke on.
Even when we step into the elevator—shoulder to shoulder, anger vibrating off both of us—we don’t speak.
We ride up to the penthouse like strangers trapped in the same storm, neither of us willing to break first.
When the elevator doors slide open, I bolt out, fury in every step. I’m two breaths from slamming my bedroom door when his voice cuts through the hallway.
“Why are you so mad?” Dimitri asks, like he’s genuinely confused. “It’s not like your father ever kept some of that money for you. To him, you were a means. A stepping stone. And now he’s used you. Discarded you.”
I whip around, anger snapping through me. “Are you insane? You don’t know anything about my family. You have no right to speak on it.”
“I know everything,” he says, voice like steel.
“Fuck you, Dimitri. You don’t know shit. Come down from your high fucking horse and stop acting like a god. My family affairs are none of your business.”
“Oh, you’re swearing,” he grins darkly. “That’s not very ladylike of you, krasavitsa.”
“Fuck you again, Dimitri. My family is none of your business.”
He moves.
Sudden, lethal, controlled.
In two strides, he’s in front of me, and then his body hits mine, pinning me against the wall. His breath is hot against my cheek, his eyes burning into me.
“Everything about you, Vivian,” he growls, “is my fucking business. Down to the air you breathe.”
I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell—but I never get the words out. He crushes his mouth to mine.
The kiss is brutal, punishing—like he’s trying to devour the argument out of me. And I kiss him back just as hard, fingers fisting in his jacket, dragging him closer, wanting to hurt him, wanting to feel him, wanting—I don’t know what I want.
Only that neither of us stops.
Neither of us softens.
It’s a collision. A fight. A surrender neither of us will admit to.
The air crackles with hate and heat and something far more dangerous. But just as his hand slides beneath my dress, I whisper, “Don’t.”
He freezes.
I feel him stiffen against me, every muscle locking like I’ve just triggered something he didn’t expect. His palm is still on my thigh, hot, steady, and I’m suddenly trembling so hard I know he can feel it.
He steps back immediately. The loss of his touch feels like a slap.
His jaw is clenched, eyes burning into me as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t know he was holding.
“When was the last time you had sex?” he asks quietly—too quietly—almost like he’s not even speaking to me but thinking out loud.
I glare at him, wishing I didn’t feel so exposed, wishing my voice didn’t shake when I answer.
“Behind the stables at a charity event,” I say, bitterness curling under my tongue. “With a man who discarded me right after.”
He doesn’t answer.
But something flickers—guilt, sharp and unguarded—cracking through his mask for the first time. He looks away as if the floor suddenly needs studying, as if my truth hit him somewhere he wasn’t ready for.
“Goodnight, Vivian,” he says quietly.
I scoff. “Of course.”
I turn and walk off before he can say anything else. The anger carries me the rest of the way—hot, humiliating, stupid—and when I reach my door, I slam it so hard the whole house shakes.
What a coward!