But regret? No.
Right now, nothing and no one can make me regret this.
Marrying Vivian Laurent is one of my best ideas yet.
And soon…they’ll understand exactly why.
When the reception ends, the crowd thins—one cluster of socialites after another drifting out like fading perfume—and I lift a hand and signal to Vivian.
She sees it.
And she doesn’t move at first.
Then, with a frown carved deep enough to show exactly how she feels about being summoned by her brand-new husband, she slowly breaks away from Elara and Sienna.
“It’s time to leave,” I say when she reaches me. “Say your goodbyes.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse you….”
I tilt my head, amused. “Do you want me to drag you across the field and into the car?”
She goes still. Then she gives me a glare so sharp it could gut a man. Unfortunately for her, I’m not a man—I’m a Rusnak. And nothing she throws at me hurts.
She turns back to her friends. Whatever she tells them makes all three of them look up and glare at me like a trio of vengeful angels.
I flash them a slow, unbothered smile.
Vivian hugs them tightly—Sienna whispering something fierce into her ear, Elara gripping her like she’s sending her into battle.
Then she returns to me.
Silent.
Stiff.
Radiating fury like a perfume.
“Let’s go,” I say.
We say our goodbyes to the remaining guests and head toward the waiting car.
I’m taking her to my penthouse—her new home—for the night.
She probably doesn’t know that yet, because she sits stiff beside me like a marble statue carved out of outrage and designers.
She likely thinks I’m carting her off somewhere to consummate our marriage.
A reasonable assumption. A wrong one.
Though…I can’t pretend the thought didn’t cross my mind.
Vivian Laurent is gorgeous. Painfully so.
And ever since that day in the Monaco stables—her body pressed against mine, her breath catching, her eyes wide and furious—I’ve thought about her more than I should.
I’ve imagined the softness of her skin.
The way she fits against me.
