“You’ve already acquired the Laurent wealth,” he says quietly behind me. “You’ve already won, Dimitri. She’s not your enemy anymore.”
My heart stops—just for a second, but enough to freeze everything inside me.
I swallow the rest of the vodka, throat burning, and wrap my fingers around the glass so tightly I can feel the edges bite into my skin. If she’s not my enemy anymore…then why the hell do I feel like I’m the one trapped?
I turn slowly to Sylvester. My voice comes out low, cold.
“She’s a Laurent. As long as she has their blood, she’s my enemy. Who are you to tell me what my wife is or isn’t?”
Sylvester takes a step back. He’s my friend—one of the few who can talk to me freely—but even he knows when to shut his damn mouth.
“She’s trapped in this marriage,” he says anyway. “And I think if you both come together as allies, it’ll be a whole lot better than whatever you have going on. Then you won’t have to drink yourself into a coma.”
He gives a slight nod, then leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.
I stare at the shut door, jaw clenching.
Who the hell does he think he is?
And is he actually insinuating that I’m losing control of the situation? That Vivian is the reason I’m drinking?
What a fucking joke.
I love to drink.
Vivian isn’t—and can never be—powerful enough to move me like that.
Never!
I almost don’t return to the penthouse that night. I have several properties scattered across New York, and I’m already halfway to one before I realize that running would only make Sylvester feel like he’s right.
Why the hell am I running from my own wife?
My own house?
I’ve handled brutal cases, outsmarted men ten times worse than the Laurents, and I’ve come out on top every single time. This—her—should be child’s play.
So I turn the car around and head back home.
Minutes later, as the elevator carries me up, I try to hold on to my anger—my rage at the Laurents, at my revenge, at the plan I’ve built piece by meticulous piece. But all I feel is guilt.
Guilt and the echo of her voice from last night:
“Behind the stables at a charity event. With a man who discarded me right after.”
Fuck her to hell for making me feel guilty about it.
I shouldn’t feel guilty. Her father did far worse. Took actual lives. Ran one of my businesses into the ground and set me back millions. But she’s furious because I had sex with her and didn’t take her home afterward?
Bullshit.
That’s only the tip of the iceberg compared to what I plan to do to her. She better have her fucking seatbelt on.
The elevator doors slide open, ushering me into the penthouse.
And I freeze.
She’s by the window, alone, sketching—quiet, focused, bathed in the gold light of chandeliers. I didn’t even know she could draw. And the piece in front of her…it’s beautiful.
