CHAPTER 2

NIKOLAI VOLKOV

On the way to the mansion, my mind was already racing, calculating every move I would make to expose that fraud. Every step, every word had to be measured with surgical precision. They wanted to play, so I would show them what it meant to face a Volkov on his own board. Then, glancing sideways, a cruel and involuntary smile curved the corner of my mouth.

There she was. My deformed bride. Huddled in the opposite corner of the limousine, trying to take up as little space as possible. The veil still covered her face, a last pathetic refuge. Her shoulders were tense, as if she expected a blow at any moment, and her fingers intertwined nervously in her lap. The scene was almost comical—the creature who was supposed to be my wife trembling like a rabbit before the wolf who had supposedly chosen her.

The irony was so biting that I needed to voice it.

"Why the fear, Mrs. Volkov?" my voice sounded low and harsh inside the car. "Didn't you yourself try to enter the wolf's cave?"

She shuddered, but didn't answer. Her silence was more irritating than any response. Before I could poke the little monster any further, the car stopped.

"We've arrived." She would make her whole family pay, and soon, starting with her. Every humiliation they had planned for me would be returned twofold. Every false smile would be wiped away with blood and tears. Seeing the mansion gates opening, the flashes in my mind returned like the force of a punch…

THE BRATVA PARTY, TWO YEARS AGO…

The dim lighting of the party, the muffled sound of expensive jazz, the scent of power and perfume in the air. And then, her. Victoria Harrington. Blonde, slender, wearing a dress that cost more than most men's cars. And her blue eyes… they promised everything and meant nothing. She was the kind of woman who used beauty as a weapon and seduction as currency.

She was the one who pulled me into the garden. Her audacity almost made me laugh, almost.

"We can't be watched, Mr. Volkov," she whispered, her fingers sliding down my arm before settling at the nape of my neck.

And then, her lips met mine. The kiss was bold, laden with a trained sensuality that knew how to provoke a response. And my body responded, of course it responded. Any man with blood in his veins would have yielded to that mouth that seemed made for sin and that body pressing against mine with calculated hunger.

But I am not driven solely by desire. I am driven by calculation.

She pulled back an inch, breathless, a triumphant, victorious smile on her lips.

"I don't think you're as cold as they say, since you apparently liked my kiss. After all, you were so quiet, but…" Her hand moved down from my chest, a deliberately slow and provocative touch, tracing a path of fire across my shirt. "...Another man would have taken me right here in the garden."

The desire that had been boiling inside me froze instantly, transformed into contempt. "Taken?" As if I were just another hungry dog chasing after a crumb she condescended to throw. As if my worth amounted to nothing more than the ability to fall at the feet of a woman who offered herself as a prize.

I pushed her away with a coldness that made her smile fade. My voice came out low and sharp.

"Don't mistake my silence for weakness, Miss Harrington. And don't think your offer is something I desire."

Her eyes widened. Arrogance gave way to a glint of disbelief.

"I don't want you," I continued, each word a knife plunged into her inflated ego. "Not now. Not ever. Save your kisses for someone who likes easy women."

The tears came quickly, but they were tears of wounded pride, not of pain. And it didn't move me. I'm not moved.

I turned my back and left her there, trembling with anger and humiliation. At that moment, I thought it was the end. A closed chapter. A small insult that a spoiled girl would get over.