He knew me too well. His words were a knife stabbing precisely into my sorest spot.
We'd been together three years. He'd said this to me countless times. But I'd always endured it, telling myself it was love, that hismethod was wrong but his intentions were good, that I was too sensitive.
But now, standing alone at what should have been my wedding, caught between unemployment panic and my ex's humiliation, I felt like a naked clown thrown under a spotlight.
"Shut up, Derek." I clenched my fists, shifting my gaze to Chloe with a polite smile. "Congratulations, Chloe. You married a man who cheats and sends bedroom pics to his ex a week before the wedding. Hope it all works out great for you both."
Chloe's smile cracked.
Good. At least I wasn't the only one uncomfortable.
I lifted my chin and moved to go around them.
But Derek deliberately stepped in my path, blocking me.
"Don't rush off, Vivienne." His fake face wore vicious satisfaction. He leaned in closer, voice low enough for just the three of us. "Since you're here, take a good look. See what real high society is. See what kind of woman actually deserves me. Your pathetic keyboard-pecking poverty and that fat you can never lose—you only deserve garbage men from the dumpster."
"Interesting," I met Derek's eyes. "Hope Chloe doesn't have to fake orgasms and comfort you about how great you were. Three-minute wonder."
Derek's face twisted. Ignoring Chloe's attempt to stop him, he raised his fist viciously. "You bitch—"
Just as I was about to kick off my heels and smash his face—
A hand reached from behind me without warning, landing decisively on my waist. The palm was broad, its heat seeping through the velvet directly into my skin, sending a current shooting upward from my waist.
A low voice spoke unhurriedly above my head.
"Congrats on the wedding, Derek."
I whipped my head around and met a pair of dark gray eyes gleaming with predatory amusement.
It was him.
The man fromthe plane.
He wore an impeccable pure black bespoke suit, black onyx cufflinks gleaming with cold light, a jawline sharp as a blade. And that silver hair catching the icy glow of the crystal chandeliers.
Derek's expression froze solid in that second.
His eyes swept from the hand on my waist, to me, to the man beside me, back and forth several times, like he was seeing something terrible.
"Ni-Nikolai?" He finally squeezed out the name, something crumbling finely in his tone. "You... you came."
"Of course. It's my dear little brother's wedding." Nikolai's deep voice released an incredibly charming, cold laugh. "As your brother, how could I miss such a... spectacular moment?"
Brother?
My brain exploded—like a million tons of dynamite detonating simultaneously.
The stranger who'd pinned me against the bathroom mirror in that Vegas first-class cabin and given me the most insane, intense orgasm of my life.
He was Derek's brother?
The half-brother Derek used to mention through gritted teeth—the one who controlled most of the Volkov family empire, ruthless and brutal?
Jesus Christ, was I dreaming or writing some trashy romance novel? I'd slept with my ex-fiancé's most terrifying, most powerful brother?
My brain went blank for two full seconds. Then I made a decision.
