Dimitri Rusnak.
If I could be a fly on the wall when this hits Henri Laurent’s desk—when he sees the name on the contract—when he realizes exactly who he sold his daughter to….
God.
The satisfaction would taste like blood and champagne.
He can’t back out now. The deal is done. Lawyers are witnesses. Signatures are binding.
I cap the pen and hand it back, leaning lazily in my chair while they shuffle paperwork with trembling fingers.
“Is everything in order?” I ask, voice smooth.
“Yes, sir,” one lawyer says. “We’ll notify the Laurents immediately. Their daughter will be informed, and preparations will begin.”
I smile slowly.
Good.
Let Vivian Laurent find out she’s been bought.
Let her understand that every step she takes from now on…is a step closer to me.
The door shuts behind the last lawyer, the echo still hanging in the candlelit room when Sylvester pushes off the wall and approaches. He’s been silent the whole time—statues don’t cast judgment, but Sylvester always does.
“You’re making her pay for a sin she didn’t commit,” he says quietly.
I don’t even look at him as I down the rest of my drink. My reply is glacial. “She’s a Laurent. That’s sin enough.”
Sylvester exhales through his nose. He’s a strategist wearing the skin of an executioner—razor-sharp where I’m ruthless, logical where I prefer instinct. When I want silence, Sylvester gives me logic, and I hate that even more than my enemies sometimes.
“Have you informed your brothers?” Sylvester asks.
“Not yet.” I stand, buttoning my jacket with unhurried precision. “I have an art gala to attend tonight. I’ll talk to them tomorrow.”
I walk out of the Metropolitan Club like a man stepping into his own kingdom—because as far as I’m concerned, I am.
By the time I enter the art gallery that evening, my mood has already soured. Galas like this are always the same—gaudy rooms, overpriced sculptures, and people pretending culture makes them interesting.
Just because I can appreciate art doesn’t mean I enjoy the crowd. These events are filled with rich snobs who weigh your pockets before they even say hello.
My plan is simple: Stay an hour, greet the host, donate a few million, disappear.
The moment I step into the hall, I feel it—the shift. Heads turn. Eyes lock. Whispers flicker like sparks. And then the women notice me.
One pair of eyes becomes two, then ten…until half the room is watching me with calculated interest. The first onedrifts toward me, then another, then another—like moths lured toward a flame that will burn them if they get too close.
I don’t slow down. I don’t smile. I don’t encourage. But they come anyway. They always do.
I head for the drink stand, scanning the bottles lined up. No vodka. Of course. These pretentious events never have anything worth drinking. I settle for a random cocktail—anything to take the edge off.
“Coming right up,” the bartender says.
I don’t care what he hands me. I just need something.
“Hi, handsome.”
I turn my head slowly.
