He steps back immediately. The loss of his touch feels like a slap.
His jaw is clenched, eyes burning into me as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t know he was holding.
“When was the last time you had sex?” he asks quietly—too quietly—almost like he’s not even speaking to me but thinking out loud.
I glare at him, wishing I didn’t feel so exposed, wishing my voice didn’t shake when I answer.
“Behind the stables at a charity event,” I say, bitterness curling under my tongue. “With a man who discarded me right after.”
He doesn’t answer.
But something flickers—guilt, sharp and unguarded—cracking through his mask for the first time. He looks away as if the floor suddenly needs studying, as if my truth hit him somewhere he wasn’t ready for.
“Goodnight, Vivian,” he says quietly.
I scoff. “Of course.”
I turn and walk off before he can say anything else. The anger carries me the rest of the way—hot, humiliating, stupid—and when I reach my door, I slam it so hard the whole house shakes.
What a coward!
Chapter 9 – Dimitri
It’s noon, and I’ve been pacing my office like a caged animal for the past twenty minutes. Sunlight spills across the floorboards, mocking me with how calm the world is while my mind is anything but.
I can’t get Vivian out of my head.
Every time I sit, every time I try to focus, her face flashes behind my eyes—not the fury, not the slap, not even the way her voice broke when she said don’t.
No.
It’s the disappointment.
The way she looked at me like I was beneath her expectations. As if she expected brutality, but not that kind of brutality.
And it infuriates me—that I even care.
That her opinion sits under my skin like a splinter I can’t dig out.
I’ve had back-to-back meetings, numbers, projections, proposals shoved in front of me, and all I remember is the way her eyes shifted—like she finally saw a part of me I never intended to show.
And worse…she wasn’t afraid.
Fear, I can use. I can bend fear. But disappointment? That’s a ghost I can’t strangle.
I storm toward the bar, the frustration riding me like a fever I can’t shake. I don’t think—I just reach for the bottle, pour a full glass of vodka, and throw it back. The burn tears down my throat, a welcome distraction from the burn in my chest.
I’m already reaching for the bottle again, pouring a second, when the door opens. Sylvester steps in, takes one look at me, and lets out a long, weary sigh.
“This is your fifth glass today,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “And it’s only noon.”
I don’t bother hiding the irritation twisting through me.
“Your point?” I mutter, lifting the glass.
“I know why you’re drinking yourself into a stupor,” Sylvester says, concern etched across his face.
I don’t ask for his opinion, and I don’t indulge him. I just move away, heading for the window, hands shoved into my pockets as if I can bury my irritation there. But of course, he follows me.
