Chapter 10 – Vivian
Slowly, my eyes blink open to sunlight spilling into the room through the overhead window. It takes a second for the world to make sense.
This isn’t my room. The sheets are different—cooler, thicker. The scent is different too: cedarwood, smoke, and something inherently Dimitri.
And then I feel it. A strong arm, heavy and warm, draped around my waist. Possessive. Anchoring. My heartbeat stutters.
Carefully, I turn, the silk sheet sliding against my skin, and I come face-to-face with Dimitri.
He’s asleep.
His blond hair—usually slicked back, controlled, sharp—is messy, scattered over the pillow in soft waves. One lock has fallen over his forehead. His jaw is relaxed. His breathing is slow and even.
He looks…peaceful. The harshness he carries when he’s awake—anger, coldness, revenge—none of it is here.
Just a man.
Just Dimitri.
I study him quietly, almost cautiously, as if I breathe too loudly, this moment will dissolve into smoke.
When did hatred turn into this dangerous tenderness?
Last night flashes back in fragments—his hands on my skin, his voice low and unguarded, the way he kissed me like he wanted to consume and protect in the same breath.
And afterward….
God.
Afterward, he had held me. His arm had circled my waist then—gentle, steady—pulling me into his chest like he was afraid I might vanish if he let go. And somewhere between his warmth and his heartbeat, I fell asleep.
I shouldn’t feel safe. But I did.
I shouldn’t feel this…pull. But I do.
And now, lying here in his bed with sunlight on our skin and his arm claiming my waist even in sleep…I don’t know if I’m waking up from a dream or stepping straight into a disaster.
I lift a hand slowly, almost without thinking, reaching for the loose strand of hair on his forehead.
But before I touch him, his eyes open. I freeze.
Those icy gray eyes find mine instantly—clear, sharp, awake in a way that makes my stomach flip. My hand hangs suspended between us.
He doesn’t speak. He just watches me…quietly. Too quietly.
No smirk. No cutting remark. Just a stare that feels like he’s trying to figure out what I am doing in his arms—and why he doesn’t hate it. The silence stretches.
I brace for mockery. A taunt. A cruel reminder that last night was a mistake. A harsh reenactment of the stables in Monaco.
But instead…he lifts his hand. His thumb drags slowly across my lower lip, warm and deliberate, sending a shiver down my spine.
His voice is a low, dangerous murmur.
“You shouldn’t have let me touch you.” A pause. His gaze darkens. “Now I won’t be able to stop.”
“Then don’t,” I whisper bravely.
For a beat, he goes utterly still. Then he smiles. Not the cruel one. Not the mocking one. A soft one—warm enough to melt sour milk, gentle enough to make my chest ache.
He leans in and kisses me, slow and sure, cradling my face like he’s afraid I’ll break or disappear if he holds me wrong.
And everything shifts.
The rest of the day, we move around each other like magnets fighting their own gravitational pull—never touching long enough, never pulling away fast enough.
His hand brushes mine when we pass each other in the hallway.
My shoulder grazes his when I reach for a glass during breakfast.
He stands too close, and I don’t step back.
I speak softly, and he listens.
He looks at me, and there is no hate—just something warm, bewildered…almost tender.
It’s beautiful in a way that terrifies me.
Because the anger in his eyes is gone.
And what replaces it is wonder, curiosity, something fragile and unnamed; it might be more dangerous than the hate ever was.
By afternoon, the shift between us is still there, humming under my skin. Breakfast had been…warm. Gentle. Dimitri had looked at me like I was something worth touching softly, worth holding. And I want that feeling again. Just for a little longer.
The lunch table is empty when I walk in. The silence feels heavier now that I’ve tasted what it’s like to sit across from him and feel wanted.
I stare at the untouched food and sigh. I don’t want to eat alone. Not today.
So I leave the dining room and head down the hall toward his study. He’s been trying today—trying to make me feel safe, trying to meet me where I am. Maybe I can try too. Maybe inviting him to lunch is a small step, but it’s something.
I reach the study door, lift my hand to knock—and pause. Dimitri’s voice drifts through the wood: low, muffled, but unmistakably tense. I hear the words “…Laurent Bank collapse.”
My breath catches.
Laurent.
My father.
I lean closer without thinking, my heart climbing into my throat.
“We’ll go blood for blood,” Dimitri says, voice like steel. “I’ve neither forgiven nor forgotten.”
The words hit me like a slap.
Blood for blood.
My stomach drops. The floor feels like it tilts under me. For a moment, all I hear is my heartbeat—loud, panicked, stupid.
Stupid. That’s what I am.
To think things were changing. To think he could ever care. To think this morning—his hands, his smile, the tenderness—meant anything beyond strategy.
I step back from the door, so quietly it scares me. My chest hurts, like something delicate has been cracked open inside me.
I don’t knock.
I don’t speak.
I just turn around and walk back to the dining room.
And I eat lunch alone.
Throughout the day, I avoid him completely. The moment I finish eating, I go straight to my room, shut the door, and lock it—not because I think he’ll try to come in, but because I need the barrier. I need the distance. I need something solid between me and the truth I overheard.
Barely ten minutes pass before there’s a knock.
Sylvester.
“Madam, sir requests that you join him for lunch.”
“I’ve eaten,” I say quietly. “Please tell him that.”
Sylvester hesitates—eyes flicking over my face, searching for something—but eventually nods and leaves. And I wait. I lie there on the bed, staring at the ceiling, telling myself he’ll come knocking any second, demanding an explanation, dragging the truth out of me the way he always does.
He doesn’t.
The silence is worse.
Hours crawl by before Sylvester returns, knocking gently like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
“Madam…sir requests to see you in his study.”
I don’t even think. “Tell him I’m busy. I—” My voice cracks, and I force it steady. “I can’t come.”
Sylvester’s brows fold with worry. “Madam…are you sure? He—”
“I’m sure,” I whisper. “Go.”
He lingers, like he wants to say something, like he’s afraid for me, but I push a shaky smile and nod. Eventually, he leaves.
And again, I wait.
This time, I’m sure Dimitri will come storming down the hall—angry, impatient, unwilling to tolerate even a hint of defiance.
But the hours go by.
And he doesn’t come.
Not a knock.
Not a message.
Not a sound.
I don’t hear from him again.
Now it’s nighttime, and I’ve already showered and changed into one of my silk nightgowns. I sit at the vanity, working through my nightly routine with hands that won’t stop trembling—whether from anger or heartbreak, I don’t know.
I keep telling myself I’m fine. That I don’t care. That I’m better off in my own room.
But the truth sits heavy in my chest.
I wish I were in Dimitri’s room…in his arms…warm and safe the way I was last night.
But going to him now would make me the biggest fool alive.
I cap my lotion bottle, push back the vanity chair, and stand to go to bed—when my door opens.
Dimitri walks in like he owns the oxygen in the room.
His face is calm, too calm, the kind of calm that usually means he’s furious but holding it by the throat. It even feels like he’s trying to keep the soft mood from this morning alive—despite everything I did to push him away.
Then he slams the door shut.
The sound ricochets through the room and into my bones.
He turns to me slowly. “Enough of your tantrums, Vivian.” His voice is low, controlled, deadly. “Explain yourself.”
The words spill out of me in a rush. I’ve been waiting—aching—for this confrontation.
“I overheard you,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend, but I don’t care. “Earlier today. When I came to invite you to lunch.”
A flicker crosses his face—surprise, calculation, something darker. I push on.
“You caused the collapse of one of my father’s banks. And you said you’d go blood for blood because you haven’t forgiven or forgotten.”
He blinks once. Slowly. But he doesn’t deny it.
My chest tightens, burning, cracking open. I shake my head, a bitter laugh slipping out.
“This isn’t about me, is it?” My voice drops, small, devastated. “It’s about what my family did to yours.”
“Yes.”
I gasp. “Oh no.”
“They destroyed too many lives,” he says quietly, but there’s nothing soft in his tone. “And a friend I loved. I have to avenge them.”
My heart twists so hard it feels like something is tearing inside me.
Understanding wars with fury, pain with pride.
“So you decided to destroy me instead?” I whisper.
He steps closer, each footfall deliberate, controlled, terrifying. When he speaks, it’s steel wrapped in something dangerously close to confession.
“You were never supposed to matter,” he murmurs. His gaze drags over my face, lingering, almost pained. “But you do now.”
The words knock the air out of my lungs. I swallow hard, my heartbeat loud in my ears. A long, aching silence stretches between us, thick enough to choke on.
My voice barely comes out. “Tell me something: Did you discard me after our first time in Monaco because of this? Because you already knew who I was?”
He exhales sharply and looks away for the first time tonight. When he turns back to me, there’s something raw in his eyes.
“You’re right,” he says. “I was a jerk to you then. I knew your name, Vivian. But I didn’t know your heart. If I could turn back time, I would act like a better man.”
For a fleeting, foolish second, I almost believe him. Almost let the part of me that craves him reach out and close the space between us.
But reality slices through me.
I shake my head. “I can’t…not right now. I need time to think.”
His jaw tenses, but I force myself to look him in the eyes.
“Leave.”
The word is barely a whisper, but it lands like a command.
For a moment, he doesn’t move—just watches me with that haunted, dangerous longing. Then, slowly, without breaking eye contact, he steps back…turns…and heads to the door.
Before he reaches it, the door slams open. Sylvester storms inside, face pale, breathing hard.
“Dimitri—we have a problem.”
Dimitri stiffens. “What?”
Sylvester hesitates only a second. “Someone leaked all of it. The truth about why you married Vivian. The revenge. Everything. They claimed you used Vivian as a pawn and bought her with money to ruin her father.”
My heart drops to my stomach.
“What?” I whisper.
Sylvester nods grimly. “The media’s already spinning it. Vivian’s being painted as a victim of a Bratva lord seeking vengeance. If this keeps spreading, it’ll destroy your reputation, Dimitri—and shine a spotlight on your ties to…everything we’ve tried to keep out of public view.”
I frown, the sharp sting of humiliation twisting deep inside me. A victim. Reduced to pity. To headlines. To scandal.
Dimitri…Dimitri looks like something inside him has snapped.
His jaw locks. His shoulders go rigid. A cold, lethal fury radiates off him in waves.
“Who,” he says, voice like ice cracking, “the fuck leaked it?”
Sylvester swallows. “We don’t know yet. But it’s spreading fast.”
My pulse quickens with fear and anger at whoever had the audacity to air my life out for views. My entire body feels hot, tight. I can hardly breathe.
Then Dimitri turns toward me. Slowly. Deliberately. Suspicion flickers in his eyes—sharp, assessing, cold enough to gut me.
“Was it you?” he asks.
The words hit harder than a slap.
My breath stutters. “What?”
“You had motive,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “You were angry. You shut me out all day. You knew enough of the truth to leak it.”
I go absolutely still.
“I did nothing,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Dimitri, I—I would never—”
But I can see it.
The doubt.
Etched across his face like a shadow.
He doesn’t believe me.
My stomach turns to ice.
“I’ve been hiding in my room because I was hurt,” I breathe, trembling now. “Not plotting. Not betraying you. God—why would I ever do that? I don’t even know half of what you’re involved in.”
But he just watches me, unreadable.
And for the first time today…I feel truly, completely alone.