Chapter 9 – Dimitri
It’s noon, and I’ve been pacing my office like a caged animal for the past twenty minutes. Sunlight spills across the floorboards, mocking me with how calm the world is while my mind is anything but.
I can’t get Vivian out of my head.
Every time I sit, every time I try to focus, her face flashes behind my eyes—not the fury, not the slap, not even the way her voice broke when she said don’t.
No.
It’s the disappointment.
The way she looked at me like I was beneath her expectations. As if she expected brutality, but not that kind of brutality.
And it infuriates me—that I even care.
That her opinion sits under my skin like a splinter I can’t dig out.
I’ve had back-to-back meetings, numbers, projections, proposals shoved in front of me, and all I remember is the way her eyes shifted—like she finally saw a part of me I never intended to show.
And worse…she wasn’t afraid.
Fear, I can use. I can bend fear. But disappointment? That’s a ghost I can’t strangle.
I storm toward the bar, the frustration riding me like a fever I can’t shake. I don’t think—I just reach for the bottle, pour a full glass of vodka, and throw it back. The burn tears down my throat, a welcome distraction from the burn in my chest.
I’m already reaching for the bottle again, pouring a second, when the door opens. Sylvester steps in, takes one look at me, and lets out a long, weary sigh.
“This is your fifth glass today,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “And it’s only noon.”
I don’t bother hiding the irritation twisting through me.
“Your point?” I mutter, lifting the glass.
“I know why you’re drinking yourself into a stupor,” Sylvester says, concern etched across his face.
I don’t ask for his opinion, and I don’t indulge him. I just move away, heading for the window, hands shoved into my pockets as if I can bury my irritation there. But of course, he follows me.
“You’ve already acquired the Laurent wealth,” he says quietly behind me. “You’ve already won, Dimitri. She’s not your enemy anymore.”
My heart stops—just for a second, but enough to freeze everything inside me.
I swallow the rest of the vodka, throat burning, and wrap my fingers around the glass so tightly I can feel the edges bite into my skin. If she’s not my enemy anymore…then why the hell do I feel like I’m the one trapped?
I turn slowly to Sylvester. My voice comes out low, cold.
“She’s a Laurent. As long as she has their blood, she’s my enemy. Who are you to tell me what my wife is or isn’t?”
Sylvester takes a step back. He’s my friend—one of the few who can talk to me freely—but even he knows when to shut his damn mouth.
“She’s trapped in this marriage,” he says anyway. “And I think if you both come together as allies, it’ll be a whole lot better than whatever you have going on. Then you won’t have to drink yourself into a coma.”
He gives a slight nod, then leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.
I stare at the shut door, jaw clenching.
Who the hell does he think he is?
And is he actually insinuating that I’m losing control of the situation? That Vivian is the reason I’m drinking?
What a fucking joke.
I love to drink.
Vivian isn’t—and can never be—powerful enough to move me like that.
Never!
I almost don’t return to the penthouse that night. I have several properties scattered across New York, and I’m already halfway to one before I realize that running would only make Sylvester feel like he’s right.
Why the hell am I running from my own wife?
My own house?
I’ve handled brutal cases, outsmarted men ten times worse than the Laurents, and I’ve come out on top every single time. This—her—should be child’s play.
So I turn the car around and head back home.
Minutes later, as the elevator carries me up, I try to hold on to my anger—my rage at the Laurents, at my revenge, at the plan I’ve built piece by meticulous piece. But all I feel is guilt.
Guilt and the echo of her voice from last night:
“Behind the stables at a charity event. With a man who discarded me right after.”
Fuck her to hell for making me feel guilty about it.
I shouldn’t feel guilty. Her father did far worse. Took actual lives. Ran one of my businesses into the ground and set me back millions. But she’s furious because I had sex with her and didn’t take her home afterward?
Bullshit.
That’s only the tip of the iceberg compared to what I plan to do to her. She better have her fucking seatbelt on.
The elevator doors slide open, ushering me into the penthouse.
And I freeze.
She’s by the window, alone, sketching—quiet, focused, bathed in the gold light of chandeliers. I didn’t even know she could draw. And the piece in front of her…it’s beautiful.
Painfully beautiful.
When she hears the door open, she glances back. The second she sees it’s me, her body goes rigid. She starts packing her things immediately, as if my presence contaminates the air she’s in.
She tries to walk past me.
I block her path.
Her glare is sharper than a knife.
“If you hate me so much,” I say, voice low and biting, “tell me why you didn’t stop your father from forcing you to marry me.”
She looks up sharply, eyes flashing. “Because no one stops men like him.”
I open my mouth, but she steps closer—close enough that I feel her breath on my chin.
“You really think someone like my father,” she says, voice trembling with contained fury, “or any man in his circle, goes around asking the women in his house for permission before making decisions that will alter their lives?”
She shakes her head.
There’s no dramatics in her tone, no anger—just a tired honesty that feels like it’s peeling my skin back.
“Like every other rich heiress born with a silver spoon,” she whispers, “I never had agency. Or freedom. I was never a daughter. I was a shiny jewel he could polish and display. Something valuable…but never someone.”
There’s no victory in her voice.
No arrogance.
Just quiet, crushing exhaustion—like she’s finally admitting it to someone for the first time.
I study her face, really study it, and for the first time, I see past the rumors, the socialite veneer, the gilded cage I assumed she thrived in. She’s not spoiled. She’s not untouchable. She’s trapped—boxed in by a name she didn’t choose, by a family that treats her like a jewel in a display case.
She tries to step past me, and I catch her hand—not hard, not in anger, but firm enough to stop her.
“Vivian,” I say, my voice lower, softer than she expects. “You’re not running from me. Not today.”
Her hand tenses in mine. She jerks slightly but doesn’t pull free. Her chest rises and falls, fire in her eyes undimmed, but beneath it…there’s a flicker. Hesitation. Vulnerability.
“Dimitri, let me go!” she spits out, sharp, though I hear the tremor.
“That’s not happening,” I say evenly, keeping my gaze locked on hers. “I know. Your father—your family—they boxed you in long before I existed. It’s up to you to change the narrative.”
She studies me, jaw tight, hand still in mine. Tension hums between us, electric, dangerous, but there’s something else, a current we’re not ready to name.
“I never asked for this,” she murmurs, voice quiet, raw.
“I know,” I say. “And neither did I. But we’re here. Together. For now.”
She tries to pull her hand from mine again, but I tighten my grip—not enough to hurt her, just enough to make sure she feels the heat of my palm, the certainty in it.
Her eyes flash up to mine again, defiant, challenging.
“You think I don’t see what you are?” I say, my voice dropping, rougher than I intend. “You fight me because you think hate will protect you. But I see the truth, Vivian. You want something real. Something that isn’t another man telling you who to be. You want to feel something that isn’t control.”
Her breath catches—tiny, barely there, but I hear it.
She stops struggling.
For the first time since I met her, she actually looks at me. Not with contempt. Not with fear.
But like she’s weighing a truth she never meant to say out loud.
“And what if I do?” she whispers.
My fingers curl around her hand, dragging her a fraction closer. Her perfume hits me—warm, soft, nothing like the ice she pretends to be.
“Then,” I murmur, “you’re more dangerous than you think.”
And before she can breathe—before I can talk myself out of it—I’m kissing her. Not the calculated, punishing kind I’ve used to scare her.
This is different.
Rough, consuming.
A hunger I’ve tried to bury under vodka and anger and the ghost of her father’s crimes.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, and that’s all it takes.
I lift her off the ground without breaking the kiss. Her gasp slips into my mouth as her legs lock around my waist—instinct, not thought—and I’m already walking, carrying her down the hall.
Every step feels like losing a war I never agreed to fight.
Her hands slide up my neck, into my hair. I bite back a groan.
This isn’t revenge.
It isn’t strategy.
It isn’t control.
It’s obsession.
Plain. Violent. Undeniable.
I push into the bedroom and kick the door shut behind us.
Her back hits the wall, and I kiss her harder, deeper, like I can drown the last twenty-four hours in her mouth.
“Dimitri…” she breathes, half-warning, half-need.
I drag my lips down her throat.
“Tell me to stop,” I rasp, even though I already know she won’t. “Like you did last night.”
She shivers against me—answer enough.
“No.”
I claim her lips again, pushing away from the wall and laying her on the bed. My instincts to be rough and brutal nicks at me, but there’s something about her little moans, the way she holds me that demands that I be soft with her today.
So I surrender.
Little by little, I take off her clothes, one after the other, giving her time to pull away at any moment, and also kissing all over her body to let her know that I’ll die if she tells me to stop right now.
She doesn’t.
I kiss her lips, then trail my mouth down her neck, across her chest, and down to her breasts. I suck her nipple into my mouth, rolling it between my teeth and lapping with my tongue. She sighs against me, arching her back to push deeper into my mouth.
Fuck, she’s sexy.
As I suck and lick her nipple, my hand trails down her body, to the apex between her thighs, and slides to touch her clit. She whimpers, her hands sinking into my hair, holding me against her breasts. Her body is made to be worshipped, and tonight she’s my goddess.
I sink one finger into her pussy, while my thumb plays with her clit, teasing, playing, until she’s whimpering and begging under her breath.
“Dimitri, please…” she begs. “I need….” Her voice trails off.
I pop her nipple out of my mouth and stare into her pleasure-filled face. I want to capture her like this forever.
I quickly shed my clothes and lay on top of her, careful to balance my weight on my elbows so I don’t crush her. Her hands reach down and guide my erection toward her heat. My breath stops at the burst of pleasure, and I plunge into her, forgetting for a moment that I want to take things slow.
She moans and wraps her legs around my waist, pressing me deeper into her. I go slow, circling my arms around her waist and holding her against me.
I continue to thrust into her, slowly. I can’t remember the last time I made love to a woman like this.
“Dimitri. I’m coming,” she cries, and I shut my eyes, letting her explosion of pleasure push me into my own orgasm.
We collapse onto the sheets, chests heaving, the air thick with the scent of sex and the ringing silence of a war unexpectedly paused.
I roll onto my side, pulling Vivian with me until she’s curled against my chest, her head resting on my shoulder.
My arms are wrapped tight around her waist—not in possession or dominance, but in a simple, desperate need to feel her weight, her warmth, her reality beside me.
I press a kiss to the top of her hair. It feels foreign, gentle, and terrifyingly honest. It’s alien to me.
I should say something mocking. Something to remind us both that this was just a physical release, a momentary lapse in my grand scheme of revenge. But the words catch in my throat, replaced by a devastating thought: She’s not just the enemy’s daughter. She’s now something much…more.