What that "interesting" meant, I couldn't judge. But I decided to take it as a compliment for now.
Mr. Volkov excused himself to "talk privately," pulling Nikolai upstairs.
I stood in the absurdly large living room, watching their backs disappear around the staircase. This place didn't feel like a home—more like a lifeless private museum. Dark oil paintings covered every wall, heavy mahogany furniture, that grand piano in the corner probably hadn't made a sound in twenty years. Even the flowers on the windowsill were dried out.
I'd just set my clutch on the sofa armrest when footsteps came from the side door.
Derek Volkov.
Fuck. Like a bad penny.
He sauntered in with half a glass of whiskey, suit jacket unbuttoned. For once, that skeletal supermodel wasn't hanging off his arm. His eyes swept over me, lips curling into that stomach-turning smirk.
"Vivienne." He deliberately lowered his voice, thinking he sounded seductive. "What a coincidence."
"What are you doing here?" I said coldly.
"This is my house. Why wouldn't I be here?" He stepped closer, his gaze dragging lecherously from my neckline to my hemline, eyes sticky with revulsion. "But you... dressed like that, showing up here... what, still carrying a torch for me?"
I didn't even bother rolling my eyes. I grabbed my clutch and moved. Breathing the same air as him made me feel oxygen-deprived.
But he took a large step, blocking my path entirely.
"Don't be so cold." He leaned in, expensive cologne mixed withsour alcohol fumes assaulting my nostrils. "We're... old friends, after all."
"Get out of my way."
"Listen, V." Instead of backing off, he pressed closer, his tone carrying a nauseating mix of condescension and desperation. "I made a mistake. I was blind not to see how hot you are. Chloe's boring as hell. Now the old man and Nikolai aren't here—stop playing games. I know you still want me. Come on, babe, there's a guest room right there. Quick. Nobody will know—"
I stared at him hard.
Bile rose in my throat.
Rage surged from my chest. Not because he wanted me back—that just made me sick—but because of how he treated marriage, how he treated Chloe, like she was some used rag he could toss aside.
I suddenly remembered Chloe at the charity gala, arm linked through his, that proud expression on her face, the way she'd flaunted her ring with such satisfaction. She probably thought she'd won, thought stealing Derek was victory.
But now? Derek stood here saying he "didn't bring her," like her existence was optional, like marriage was just a contract he could tear up anytime.
I didn't feel sorry for Chloe—she deserved exactly this. But this attitude toward women, toward commitment, filled me with bone-deep fury.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Derek blinked, clearly not expecting my reaction.
"Vivienne, just listen—"
"Shut your filthy mouth." I ground my teeth. "You think saying 'I made a mistake' erases the fact that you cheated and sent me sex photos? Derek, how pathetic are you? Does Chloe know you're standing here wagging your tail at your ex-fiancée like a dog in heat?"
His face instantly turned the color of a bruised liver. "What happens between me and Chloe is none of your—"
"Of course it's not." I gave a cold laugh. "I'm just suddenly grateful to God. He took you—this spineless worm who treatsmarriage like trash and women like objects—and gave you precisely to her. You two are perfect for each other."
"You bitch—" Fury flashed in Derek's eyes as he lurched forward a step, his glass sloshing violently.
But he didn't get close.
"What's going on here?"
