But now, I felt nothing. Just cold detachment and a sense of absurdity.
I mentally rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out. I swept my gaze over Jessica and Brittany like they were circus clowns.
Jessica, last month you misplaced a decimal point on the Prada sample report and nearly got the whole department sued. If I hadn't pulled two all-nighters digging through trash for the original receipts, you'd be in court right now.
And you, Brittany. Your "exclusive interview" misspelled the CEO's name. Who groveled to the PR firm begging for mercy to fix the layout before deadline? Me.
You useless idiots who can't even run an Excelspreadsheet, who spend your days gossiping about which Botox brand works best—where the hell do you get off mocking me?
I took a deep breath and buried every barb deep inside. In this cutthroat world, anger was cheap. Only attitude was lethal.
I slowly turned, casually twirled the gold invitation between my fingers, then looked up with a brilliant, crushing smile.
"Thanks for caring, Jessica." My tone was calm, almost condescending. "My figure definitely can't fit into your bargain-bin skeleton look. But I guarantee, even in a burlap sack, I'll get more story material than you ever could."
I paused, my gaze sweeping across the rubbernecking office, my voice low but sharp. "I'm taking this invitation. I'll come back with the most exclusive inside scoop and the most explosive headline. You gossiping wastes of space just sit in your swivel chairs and watch."
Without acknowledging Jessica's rage-twisted face or Brittany's shrill outrage, I turned on my heels, spine straight, and strode like a victorious queen into the hallway toward the break room.
But.
The moment the frosted glass door closed behind me.
The invincible mask I wore shattered like peeling paint.
I slid down the cold wall like boneless jelly, clutching my knees, burying my face in my arms.
"What the hell am I doing..."
I grabbed my hair in a breakdown, screaming silently inside.
I regretted it! My guts twisted with regret!
What was I trying to prove? To clap back at those two idiots, I'd promised to storm my ex's wedding?
Exclusive coverage? What coverage? Would I ask Derek, "Did your conscience hurt when you betrayed your fiancée?" Or ask that skeletal supermodel, "Is stealing someone's fiancé a new fashion trend?"
The second I showed up at that wedding, Derek's smug, mocking face and his buddies' laughing eyes would shred my already tattered self-respect to pieces.
But I'd said it. The words were out. Gary's order hung over myneck like a blade. If I didn't go, I'd lose my job. My mom's medication would stop.
I had no way out. I could only jump into the fire pit blind.
Helplessness and panic swallowed me like a tide.
I sat cross-legged on the cold break room floor, flipped over the gold invitation, and stared at the blank back.
Maybe the Volkovs wouldn't notice a masked woman at their reception?
Chapter Five
Nikolai
Five in the morning. Just me and my breathing in the private gym.
The air reeked of old leather, sweat, and disinfectant. I loved this hour. No tailored suits, no "Pakhan" weighing on my shoulders, no old bastard droning in my ear about arranged marriages and family interests. Just pain. Just the pure rush of pounding every frustration into the bag.
I worked the heavy bag with combination punches. Left hook, right hook, uppercut. Each strike made the tape on my knuckles scrape against the rough canvas with a grating sound.
