But no. She moved through those fake guests like a lone wolf in a pack. She remembered every name, instantly assessed who had power and who could be used. She was smart, quick, and most importantly—she hated Derek with a passion.
The file Sasha gave me flashed clear in my mind. Vivienne Cole. Dead father. Mother in some rural psychiatric facility. Clean background.
Then Sasha's words from a few days ago echoed back.
"You might actually need a 'wife.' Someone with a clean record, easy to control, no threat to the family. Someone to help you ride out this turbulent period."
I'd told him to get the hell out. Because I'd never let my power depend on uncontrollable emotions.
But now, looking at this woman—eyes shining over "mob boss," completely unpredictable—a crazy idea took root.
What if it was just a transaction? What if that so-called "wife" was her?
A bold, reckless plan formed.
I crushed out my cigarette, straightened, and moved toward her. As her eyes widened slowly, I planted both hands on the vanity behind her, caging her in. "Dear Vivienne, since you're so interested in who I am, let's talk business."
"Business?" She seemed thrown by my sudden shift, excitement dimming slightly.
"You should've received the card Sasha sent." I cut straight to it, giving her no breathing room. "But that's just pocket change. I did you a small favor. So I'd like you to do me one in return."
"What?" She stepped back halfa step, wary.
"I need a wife. A woman who can attend every public event with me for the next year."
She sucked in a sharp breath, eyes going huge. "You want me to... pretend to be your fiancée? Are you serious? You're a Russian mob boss. You need to get married? What is this, a bad '80s movie?"
"I know you need money." I ignored her mockery, coldly laying out my offer. "Your mother's medical bills. Next month's rent. I know that bald editor just fired you. You need money badly."
Her face darkened instantly, murderous. "How do you know that?"
"I know everything, Vivienne." I looked down at her. "I also know your father's dead. Your mother's in that expensive facility. You're alone in this city. No one would claim your body."
She went rigid but didn't back down.
"Why me?" She stared at me like I was insane. "Because I'm cheap labor? Or because I know all Derek's dirty secrets?"
"Because you're perfect." I locked eyes with her, enunciating each word. "You're smart. Beautiful enough to shut up those old fossils. And you've got leverage. Most importantly, you hate Derek. You'll play this role because you want to watch him burn too."
I closed the distance again until my breath hit her face. "One year. Pretend to be my fiancée. Show up where I need you. Smile for the cameras. In return, I'll clear all your debts. Medical bills, rent, everything. And I'll make that bald piece of shit Gary disappear from this city completely."
Her pupils contracted sharply. She hadn't expected the threat in my tone. Or this kind of offer.
"You're blackmailing me," she said quietly, voice shaking.
"I'm giving you a solution," I corrected. "Of course, feel free to refuse." I paused, voice dropping to freezing. "But then... I'll make sure everyone knows your little scene at the wedding was fake. What do you think Derek will do when he finds out his ex climbed into his brother's bed? Don't forget—our family runs deep. Even if Derek's a weak little shit, he's still got mob blood in him. Think it over, firecracker. It's a good deal. Just one year."
She bit her lip hard, face pale. Calculating. Weighing her options.The vulnerability mixed with strength in her expression made her look fragile and tough at once. Similar to her face when she came, but slightly different.
My cock stirred.
Damn. I wanted to bend her over that table again, fuck into her tight little cunt until that sharp mouth couldn't say anything but yes.
Suddenly, she lifted her head. Those green eyes reignited with that familiar, defiant fire.
"Fine, Volkov." She spat my name like an insult. "I'll be your fake wife. But I have conditions."
Oh, spicy.
