Derek's ex-fiancée.
Fuck. She was Derek's unlucky ex?
The screen showed her profile, including a photo. Younger, more naive, leaning head-to-head with Derek, flashing an eight-tooth smile at the camera.
Nothing like the woman in the ridiculous pink dick headband screaming into her phone.
"Keep going." My voice dropped low.
"She received an invitation to the wedding." Sasha scrolled. "Her employer, Urban Style Magazine, assigned her to cover it."
I flipped to the last page. A copy of the official wedding invitation. The guest list. Media section. There it was, printed clear as day: Vivienne Cole, Urban Style Magazine.
I stared at that line and started laughing.
How absurd. How perfect.
The world had too many damn coincidences.
Derek dumped this woman for some bony supermodel. And I—Nikolai Volkov—just fucked her and gave her money to get revenge.
Now she'd use my money to attend the wedding of the asshole who dumped her.
And I, the current Pakhan, Derek's brother, the man who had her begging against a bathroom mirror...
How could I miss this show?
I looked up at Washington's gray sky through the window. My smile widened, deepened.
"Sasha."
"Yes, Pakhan."
"Make the arrangements." I forwarded the file to my personal phone.
"Arrangements for what?"
"Tell my dear brother I'll be attending his wedding." I turned, eyes gleaming with predatory excitement. "And I want the best seat in the house."
This was going to be one hell of a show. A fitting performance for Derek's stupidity.
Chapter Six
Vivienne
The dress Mia picked out was dark emerald green, shimmering like snake scales under cold light. Deep V, open back, cinched tight at the waist, then flaring below the hips. The hem swayed when I walked.
"Wear this one," she'd said, shoving it into my hands with a look of almost cruel certainty. "Let that bastard see exactly what he had lost."
I'd stood in front of the dressing room mirror, staring at this woman in green velvet, her hourglass figure on full display. Mia was right. This dress was made for revenge.
But now, standing at the marble entrance of the Volkov family wedding venue, I wanted to return the damn thing and crawl into a hole.
The scene was leagues more extravagant than I'd imagined.
The ballroom soared two stories high. Crystal chandeliers poured warm golden light over everything, gilding everyone's skin. The guests were politicians or business elite—turn around and you'd recognize a face from a Forbes cover. Women in haute couture, men in silk ties, champagne lined up on waiters' trays in perfect rows.
And me. An assistant who thought a four-figure dress could giveher courage, clutching a recorder, wearing a media badge, standing among these people like a grain of rock salt in caviar.
