Four p.m., the black Bentley glided into the estate.
Hearing the heavy walnut door to the main study open, my heart nearly leapt out of my throat.
I took a deep breath, carefully balancing the delicate pastry plate, and shuffled to the study door. I knocked with my knuckles.
"Come in."
That signature metallic baritone rumbled through the door.
I pushed it open. Nikolai sat behind that massive walnut desk.
His bespoke vest was buttoned to perfection, tie loosened slightly, brow heavy.
At the sound, he didn't look up. Just slowly flipped through a file, radiating suffocating high-pressure dominance.
Dead silence filled the air.
I shuffled over and gingerly set the plate on the corner of the desk. "So... my dear boss, you've been working hard. I had the kitchen make you honey cakes."
Nikolai finally put down his pen.
He slowly lifted his eyelids. Those deep, cold gray eyes locked onto my face. Then his long fingers reached out and, excruciatingly slowly, pushed that notebook with the childish flamingo sticker across the desk toward me.
What?
When did he go to my room and take my notebook?
I almost screamed.
But before I could speak, he did.
"Vivienne," he said, voice low, rough with a bone-chilling edge of danger. "Do you know what happens in Bratva rules when someone privately records the Pakhan's internal operations—or even... extremely intimate personal details?"
Oh God.
I just wrote a novel. Is it really that serious?
I'd rehearsed a whole speech, but the second I met those overwhelming eyes, I forgot everything.
I guiltily avoided his gaze, fingers nervously picking at my skirt, stammering out a weak defense. "That... that's artistic license. I swear Ihid all the real locations, and I changed your name to Aleksei. Nobody's going to connect you to a romance novel hero..."
"Artistic license?" Nikolai raised an eyebrow.
His slender fingers tapped the flamingo sticker, tone deliberate but laced with lethal pressure. "So in Chapter 14, when 'Aleksei' grips the heroine's waist in the back of an armored car and ruthlessly drives into her, forcing her to bite his shoulder... that's also artistic license?"
My face erupted in flames, toes curling in my shoes.
"That was... market demand!" I shot back, face burning, lunging for the notebook. "Readers love sexually charged scenes! You don't understand the novel market—give it back!"
Nikolai effortlessly raised his arm, letting me miss completely.
Not only did he not return it, he flipped it open with one hand. Those gray eyes glinted with wicked mischief, and then—he actually read my exact lines out loud!
"'The old knife scar on his solid abs glistened with sweat, radiating lethal pheromones. His beast-like stamina nearly made me pass out, but he wouldn't let me escape...'" He paused, gaze shifting from page to my face, about to combust, amusement deep enough to drown in. "Seems I performed well last night. You assessed my scar trajectory and endurance so meticulously, fiancée."
My rational thread snapped.
A whole day of accumulated fear, plus being publicly humiliated right now, fermented instantly into pure rage and mortification.
