I glared at him. But God as my witness, my traitorous legs had gone soft as overcooked noodles. I couldn't even muster the strength to push him away.
Heavy footsteps from the top of the stairs abruptly cut through the nearly combustible tension.
I snapped back to reality, scrambling to push away from Nikolai's chest. He didn't force me to stay. His arm released, but his fingertips traced along my waistline with deliberate possessiveness before sliding slowly back into his suit pocket.
Peter Volkov descended from the second floor. His weathered face was tight, expression dark as a brewing thunderstorm. His sharp gaze swept between Nikolai and me, clearly sensing the lingering intimacy and tension in the air. But he didn't care.
"Where's Derek?" Peter stood at the hallway entrance, cold eyes scanning the empty living room, brow furrowed tight.
"He left." Nikolai's tone was calm, didn't even lift an eyelid. "Probably suddenly remembered he's got a newlywed bride who needs attending to."
Peter's brow instantly knotted. He gave a heavy snort, displeasure written all over his face. "Nikolai, could you be a little more tolerant toward your brother? Derek's always been sentimental. He just came to say hello. You're the head of this family now. If you can't even show that much generosity, how will you command respect?"
Nikolai calmly adjusted his cufflinks, catching cold light, and didn't even lift an eyelid. "He left. Maybe his supermodel bride suddenly couldn't spare him, rushed back to fulfill his husbandly duties."
"He's your brother, Nikolai. You're always so harsh with him." Peter snorted coldly, undisguised favoritism in his eyes. "Derek just wanted to liven up a family gathering. He meant no harm."
This kind of unprincipled bias, Nikolai was clearly used to. His face didn't even ripple with sarcasm. He just pulled at the corner of his mouth, tossing out a bland dismissal. "Is that so? Then I hope next time he tries to 'liven things up,' he doesn't run off like a dog whose tail got stepped on."
Peter's expression darkened further. He walked to the mahogany sofa, sat down, picked up Derek's half-finished whiskey and swirled it, voice heavy with pressure.
"Derek's recent real estate projects in New Jersey have been impressive. Several of the old guard on the Council praised him. Now that you've secured the Pakhan position, you should understand what it means to be a proper leader. Hand over part of the East Coast shipping lines or the New Jersey private equity fund to him. He knows how to deal with those Washington politicians better than you. He's more of a Volkov."
At this point, those lifeless eyes suddenly turned, drilling into my face, mouth curling into a cruel sneer.
"As for this Miss Cole... Nikolai, the Volkov table is large, but there's no room for questionable origin, rat-attracting cheap vases. At formal occasions, I expect you to bring a woman who truly matches the Volkov name, not some plus-size toy who can barely scrape by at a third-rate editorial house and barely squeezes into haute couture."
The air solidified. Even the birdsong outside seemed strangled.
I felt Nikolai's hand at my waist instantly lose tension—that was the stillness before an explosion. But I didn't give him a chance to speak.
Plus-size toy.
Fuck that.
I'd been gritting my back teeth, cycling through every curse word I knew ten times over, warning myself that for the sake of that triple-salary paycheck, I had to hold it together. Tonight I was just an emotionless contract vase.
But hearing this absurdly offensive bullshit, my temples started pounding.
The nausea in my stomach instantly burned away in a chemical fury. I took a deep breath of the stale, musty air and tilted my head slightly, meeting Nikolai's gray eyes swirling with dark currents.
I didn't speak immediately. Just raised half an eyebrow and gave him a brilliant fake smile with zero warmth.
Fuck the contract.
I was done.
Chapter Sixteen
Vivienne
Smack.
I slammed my palm down on the antique mahogany coffee table in front of Peter Volkov.
The massive sound made the living room go dead silent for a second. Peter's half-full glass of whiskey trembled in his hand as those dried-well eyes snapped up, glaring at me with venom.
I stepped forward twice on my stilettos, closing in on that mahogany sofa. I stared down at this shriveled old bastard from my height, my lips curling into a cold, mocking smile that held zero warmth.
