Chapter 12 – Vivian
The first step in the humiliation tonight was stylists and makeup artists arriving to dress me up for the press conference.
They’re like robots. Or even worse, like bees buzzing in my ears, saying this and that.
When I tell them I don’t want anything heavy, they apologetically tell me that Dimitri already told them what kind of makeup to do.
Something heavy. Seductive. Bold red lipstick.
The stylist brings out a dress that’s like liquid gold, and after my makeup is done, she helps me into it. I feel like a new bride being prepared, and I hate it.
When they finish, they both hurry out of the room, leaving me staring at my reflection.
I look…expensive. Intimidating. Manufactured.
This isn’t me.
This is Dimitri’s version of me.
My pulse stutters with a mix of anger and humiliation. He wants to parade me in front of the cameras like some glittering trophy—proof that I’m on his side, proof that our marriage is real, proof that I’m not the woman the media says I am. And maybe also proof that he owns me.
I grip the edge of the vanity, breathing through the ache swelling beneath my ribs.
He thinks I leaked the story.
He thinks I betrayed him.
And now I have to walk beside him like a loyal wife.
I blink back the burn in my eyes. Not tears. Not tonight.
Before I can gather myself, my door opens without a knock.
Dimitri walks in.
His eyes sweep over me—slow, controlled, unreadable—but there’s a flicker there. Something sharp. Something dark. Something satisfied.
And I feel suddenly, painfully aware of the gold dress clinging to my body.
“The PR agent is outside in the living room,” he says.
“What?” I whisper. “I can’t do this. I can’t look—”
“I don’t care.”
He snaps it—cold, sharp, merciless.
“You will walk out this door with me and pretend you’re a loving wife. If you don’t do that, I’ll show you how brutal the media thinks I am. Don’t test me, Vivian.”
My heart swells with fear.
He’s never treated me like this. Never spoken to me like this.
His eyes burn with anger, and everything about him is hostile—his stance, his jaw, his breathing.
“Do you hear me?” he barks.
I nod, short and tight.
“Good. Now come over here.”
I walk to him on stiff legs, each step scraping against the inside of my chest. He takes my arm—firm, claiming, cold.
“Fix your face,” he mutters. “If you mess this up, we’re going to have a problem.”
Then he pushes the door open, and we step out together.
Into the lights. Into the cameras.
Into the performance of my life.
As my eyes adjust to the glare, I smile—not at the crowd, not at the flashes—but at Dimitri. He smiles back, practiced and perfect, his arm tightening around my waist in a way that makes me feel owned, not adored.
To the outside world, it’s devotion. A man claiming his wife. But I know better. I know exactly what this is. We kiss for the cameras. We hug.
He leans down, lips brushing my ear, whispering sweet lies meant for microphones and headlines, not for me.
We move around the living room performing the most mundane tasks—pouring drinks, adjusting my dress, touching his hand like it’s all instinct. A beautifully curated fantasy.
It’s the most excruciating hour of my life.
When the time is finally up, and the PR team steps into the elevator, smiling, satisfied, oblivious, Dimitri drops his arm from my waist as if my skin burns him.
“Good,” he says, already cold again. “Now go prepare your speech. We have one more hour.”
Then he turns his back on me without hesitation.
By six-thirty, Dimitri escorts me out to the car like a possession—one hand on my back, firm, controlling, guiding me the way someone would handle something expensive but not precious.
Kyle starts toward us, worry tightening his features. “I’ll ride with—”
One cold look from Dimitri stops him mid-sentence. Kyle’s jaw clenches, but he steps back, helpless, leaving me to my fate.
Dimitri opens the passenger door for me—not with tenderness, but with purpose—and waits until I sit. He shuts it with a solid, final click that feels like the closing of a cage. He moves around the front of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and without a word, we pull out of the garage.
The silence is thick, heavy.
The city lights blur past the windows.
And Dimitri keeps his eyes fixed on the road, jaw tight, like the very sight of me could derail whatever resolve he’s clinging to.
The venue is the ballroom of one of the Rusnaks’ luxury hotels—crystal chandeliers blazing above, their light scattering across the polished marble floor.
The media swarm behind velvet ropes, cameras flashing like a hundred impatient stars.
Every click and burst of light feels like a dagger against my skin.
As we arrive, the paparazzi descend, shouting questions, their voices a chaotic wave. My chest tightens. I remember that night—days ago, maybe a lifetime ago—when I’d kissed him for the cameras, a performance meant to deceive. That memory bites at me now.
Dimitri’s hand is firm on my back as he leans slightly toward one of the mics. “Relax,” he says, his voice calm but carrying steel beneath it. “The whole truth will be out in a few minutes.”
We step into the ballroom, the crowd parting slightly as they recognize us. Reporters and photographers hover, some businessmen I assume are investors in Dimitri’s businesses. None of his brothers are here, and I didn’t tell any of my friends, so I don’t expect to see anyone familiar.
Dimitri guides me forward, each step measured, his presence like a shield. The podium is ahead, bathed in light, awaiting our performance. We stop before it, and I feel the weight of every eye in the room pressing down on me. The truth—or maybe the lie—is coming, and there’s no turning back.
We reach the podium. I step up beside him, heels clicking against the polished floor. Dimitri’s hand slides to rest lightly over mine like a tether keeping me from falling apart.
He clears his throat, and suddenly the room hushes. Every camera, every pen, every whisper is on us. His voice rolls out, smooth and practiced.
“Good evening, everyone,” he begins. “I know there have been many rumors circulating about my marriage. Allow me to make something perfectly clear.” He pauses, eyes scanning the room, then lands on me.
“Vivian Laurent is not here by force, nor is she a pawn in anyone’s game.
She is the woman who saved me from chaos, from a life that I thought I was doomed to live. And any suggestion otherwise is a lie.”
I force myself to meet the audience’s gaze, not his. But I steal a glance at him—Dimitri’s jaw is tight, eyes hard, calculating. There’s a flicker of something there, something raw and unguarded, that makes my chest twist.
A reporter calls out: “Is this about the leak, Mr. Rusnak?”
Dimitri leans slightly toward the mic, gaze unwavering. “Yes. The story is false. And let me be clear: This marriage is real. Every word of it. And Vivian”—his voice softens just a fraction—“Vivian is my wife. Nothing else matters.”
I hear murmurs, clicks, flashes. I can feel the weight of their disbelief and curiosity, but I keep smiling. Lips pressed into a perfect curve, teeth hidden. My hand brushes against his, and for the cameras, it’s tender. For me, it’s electric.
Another reporter shouts, “But what about the revenge allegations?”
Dimitri’s eyes snap to him, a sharp warning buried in their gray depths. “They’re lies,” he says loudly. “We married because we chose each other. No one forced this. No one manipulated us. That story is a fabrication.”
He lets his gaze sweep the room. “I love my wife so much.” My heart skips a beat as his hand tightens around mine. “And I’m not above taking legal steps against anyone who says otherwise. Thank you.”
When he finishes, there’s a beat of stunned silence, then the room erupts into polite applause. Cameras flash like fireworks. People rise from their seats, murmuring to one another. Investors, journalists, everyone—they’re buying it.
I clap. Hands tight, rigid. My palms burn from pressing them together so hard, but I keep my face light, my eyes soft. I lean slightly into Dimitri’s shoulder—just enough for the cameras. His arm snakes around my waist possessively, and I stiffen under it.
For the world, we are the perfect couple.
For me, I’m a puppet. A calculated, sparkling, obedient puppet.
And yet, I feel a strange thrill. I can play him as well as he plays me. I meet his eyes for a second—a silent acknowledgment that I’m not as helpless as I seem. He notices it too, just for a heartbeat, before resuming the mask of tenderness for the cameras.
I want to tell him, I’m not yours.
But I can’t. Not here. Not with fifty lenses burning into my skin, not with a room full of people hanging on every syllable.
“Your turn,” he whispers in my ear, low and intimate, and I shiver. The words aren’t meant for anyone else, but the heat in them makes my chest squeeze. “Don’t mess it up.”
I force a giggle, pretending he just said something flirtatious. My lips curve into a practiced smile. Then I pull away and stride toward the podium he just stepped away from, heels clicking sharp against the floor. My hands sweat, but my back is straight. My chin is lifted.
I clear my throat. Every eye in the room is on me. Every flash feels like it could melt me. I breathe in. I breathe out. And I speak.
“I love my husband,” I say, voice even, confident, though my stomach flips. “These rumors are untrue. And I ask…I ask that everyone lets our marriage breathe without poison. Please.”
I feel the room shift. Whispers ripple through the crowd.
Clicks of cameras grow louder. My words are devoured, chewed over, repeated in headlines before they’re even spoken.
And I watch Dimitri, standing just beside me, his expression carefully neutral—but his eyes flicker with that same gray storm I know too well.
He’s watching me. Assessing. Calculating.
“We’re newlyweds, and we have blood flowing through our veins. Such evil news isn’t what we need right now. We don’t need expensive presents or loud declarations; we just ask to be left alone. Thank you.”
I finish, nod slightly, and step down from the podium. He slips his hand into mine as we descend. Firm. Possessive. It’s a reminder of the chains I’m wearing.
“You were good,” he murmurs into my ear, his voice low, almost a growl. “Almost made me fucking believe you.”
I open my mouth to reply, to spit some sharp retort, but before the words leave, everything erupts.
The lights flicker violently. A shattering crash of glass echoes across the lobby. Then gunfire. Sharp, chaotic, impossible to ignore.
I barely register it before Dimitri yanks me down to the floor, his body pressed against mine, shielding me like I’m the most fragile thing in the world. My heart is slamming so hard I think it’ll break my ribs.
“Stay down!” he shouts, though his own voice is steady, commanding.
The lobby becomes a warzone. Security floods in, guns drawn, yelling, returning fire. The reporters scream and scatter, cameras tumbling across the floor. My hands clutch at Dimitri’s jacket, frozen against the chaos, the heat of him against me grounding me.
Through the flashes and smoke, I catch sight of masked men retreating. One of them shouts something in Russian—“For Koval!”—before disappearing into the chaos.
And yet…and yet, I can’t stop staring at him. Not at the masked men. Not at the shattered glass. Not at the gunfire. Him.
Dimitri. He just protected me with his body. Held me down. Taken every risk on my behalf without hesitation. And despite the bullets, the chaos, the fear—I feel something impossible, raw, and terrifying stirring inside me.
I grip him tighter. “Dimitri…” I whisper, voice trembling, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes are scanning, calculating, lethal, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. But I know, even if he doesn’t admit it, even if he never will—he’s just saved my life.
And the thought leaves me breathless.
When he’s certain the danger has passed, he rises up, towering over me, his eyes scanning every shadow as if expecting the attackers to reappear. Then, finally, he turns his focus on me, his grip firm but careful on my arm.
“Are you okay?” His voice is rough, but underneath it, I catch the slightest tremor of concern. He leans in, scanning my body for injuries as if I were fragile glass.
I shake my head, words failing me. My chest is still hammering from the adrenaline, my hands still trembling from fear—and from the shocking realization that he just risked everything to protect me.
“Come on. Let me get you out of here.”
Before I can protest, he tucks me against his side, one arm wrapping possessively around my waist while the other keeps a careful hold on mine. He moves briskly, each step controlled, cutting a path through the remnants of chaos toward the car.
I feel the press of his chest against mine, the solid weight of him like an anchor in the storm of my panic. The metallic scent of blood and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the expensive cologne he always wears.
“This wasn’t random,” he mutters, voice low, almost to himself, yet I feel the words vibrate through me. “Someone wanted a message delivered.”
I want to speak. I want to ask why, who, what now? But my throat feels tight, my voice stuck somewhere between fear and disbelief. I just nod, letting the silence stretch between us.
When we arrive at the penthouse, Dimitri steps out first. He doesn’t glance at me as he hands me over to Kyle with a deadly glare. “Protect her with your life, or I’ll take it from you,” he says, voice sharp, low, leaving no room for argument.
Then, without another word, he steps into the elevator, and the doors close between us.
Kyle clears his throat, shifting nervously as he follows me down the hall. “Are…are you okay? Should I—”
I shake my head, cutting him off with a flat, exhausted, “I’m fine.” My legs feel weak, trembling under the weight of adrenaline and relief. I don’t speak again, don’t even look at him as I lock myself in my bedroom, shutting out the world.
That night, sleep doesn’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—Dimitri—looming over me, body coiled around mine, shielding me, alive, lethal, impossibly close. I can feel the press of his chest, the hard strength of his arms, even though he isn’t here.
I can’t stop thinking about how terrifying it was, and how…safe it also made me feel. And that thought makes me shiver.