The price of a drink

The lunch had been a delicate dance of vanity and thinly veiled barbs. As the sun began to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the terrace of L’Ermitage, Vivienne signaled for the waiter. She was ready to leave the suffocating cloud of Chloe’s envy and the talk of "strategic mergers." She wanted to be back in the driver’s seat of her Lamborghini, where the only voice she had to listen to was the roar of the engine.

"The check, please," Vivienne said, reaching for her designer handbag.

The waiter, a young man who had been hovering nervously near their table all afternoon, bowed his head slightly. "Actually, Miss Blackwood, the bill for your table has already been settled in full."

Vivienne froze, her hand halfway into her bag. Beside her, Chloe’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline.

"Settled?" Vivienne repeated, her voice cooling. "By whom? My father didn't mention sending anyone—"

"Not your father, Madame," the waiter said, stepping aside and gesturing toward a dimly lit corner of the interior bar, just behind the glass partition. "The gentleman at the corner booth."

Both women turned their heads in unison.

He was sitting alone, framed by the dark mahogany and amber bottles of the bar. He wasn't wearing a suit, which in this establishment was practically an act of rebellion. Instead, he wore a crisp white linen shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal the corded muscles of a tanned chest and the faint, dark ink of a tattoo creeping up toward his collarbone. He looked rugged, out of place, and utterly commanding.

As if sensing their gaze, the man lifted a heavy crystal tumbler of amber liquid—neat whiskey, by the look of it. He didn't smile; he merely inclined his head in a slow, deliberate acknowledgment and gave a single, devastating wink.

"Who does he think he is?" Chloe hissed, her face contorting into a mask of practiced disgust. "He looks like he just walked off a boat. The nerve of some people, trying to buy their way into a conversation with a Blackwood."

Vivienne didn't answer immediately. She felt a strange, electric jolt in her chest. There was something about the way he sat—with a casual, leonine stillness—that made everyone else in the room look like they were trying too hard. He didn't look like he wanted her attention; he looked like he was bored by it.

"I don't even know," Vivienne answered, her voice tighter than usual.

She felt a surge of her father’s pride rising in her throat. She wasn't a girl who had her drinks bought for her by strangers. She was the woman who owned the building if she felt like it. Vivienne reached into her bag, pulled out a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills—enough to cover the lunch twice over—and added a few extra for a tip.

"Wait here," Vivienne commanded Chloe.

She stood up, her silk trousers swishing as she marched toward the bar. Every eye in the restaurant followed her. She was Vivienne Blackwood, the birthday girl in the orange supercar, and she was about to put this upstart in his place.

She reached his table and slapped the money down onto the dark wood with a sharp thwack.

"Take it," Vivienne said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "I don’t need anyone to settle my bills. I am more than capable. I’m not some cheap girl you’re used to picking up in bars like this."

The man didn't flinch. He slowly lowered his glass, his dark eyes tracing the line of her silk blazer before finally settling on her face. Up close, his handsomeness was overwhelming—raw, masculine, and entirely devoid of the "polished" look Julian possessed. He had a faint scar near his temple and eyes that looked like they had seen things Vivienne couldn't even imagine.

He didn't look at the money. He looked back at her.

"It was a birthday gift," he said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate in the air between them. "I heard everyone singing for you earlier. It’s a loud city. I thought I’d add a little quiet to your afternoon."

"I don't want your gifts," she snapped.

He leaned back, a small, mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Trust me, little missy, I don't 'want' you either. I don't do high-horse girls. They’re far too much maintenance and rarely worth the effort."

Vivienne’s breath hitched. No one—no one—had ever spoken to her like that. "Excuse me?"

"You’re not my type," he continued, his gaze cool and dismissive. He stood up then, and Vivienne realized just how tall he was. He towered over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the window. "Keep your money. Give it to the waitress. Or better yet, use it to hire a personal designer. You need one. That outfit is trying too hard to say 'I'm rich,' when your face already says 'I'm bored.'"

He didn't wait for her to respond. He didn't look back to see the shock on her face. He simply turned and walked toward the exit with a slow, powerful gait that suggested the entire world was his living room.

Vivienne stood frozen by the booth, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was humiliated. She was furious. And yet, for the first time in twenty-three years, she felt a spark of genuine, terrifying interest. He had looked right through the Blackwood name, right through the expensive clothes, and saw someone he wasn't impressed by it was clear he didn't know her or who her father is.

"Vivi! Are you okay?" Chloe appeared at her side, pulling on her arm. "What did he say? He looked so... common. Don't mind him. He probably doesn't even know who you are."

"He didn't," Vivienne whispered, her eyes fixed on the door where he had disappeared.

"Come on, let's get out of here. This place is becoming a circus," Chloe muttered, dragging her toward the parking valet.

They stepped out into the bright afternoon air just in time to see the white Porsche 911 GT3 idling in the VIP spot right next to Vivienne’s Lamborghini. The engine was a sophisticated, high-pitched hum. The man—Roman—was behind the wheel. He didn't glance at them. He didn't rev his engine to compete. He simply pulled out into the street, his white car weaving through traffic with surgical precision until he was gone.

"What a jerk," Chloe said, tossing her hair. "I hope his engine stalls."

Vivienne didn't hear her. She was staring at the space where his car had been. The anger was still there, simmering under her skin, but it was being overtaken by something far more dangerous. She had spent her life surrounded by men who bowed, men who flattered, and men who were terrified of her father.

But that man? He had looked at her like she was a nuisance. He had challenged her. He had told her she wasn't his type.

And in that moment, Vivienne Blackwood knew she was in trouble. Because as she climbed back into her orange Lamborghini, the leather seats felt cold, and the birthday she had been so excited for suddenly felt empty. She didn't want the diamonds, the cars, or the Mayor’s son.

She wanted to find the man in the white Porsche and make him take back every word he had said. She was in love with the challenge, in love with the mystery, and though she didn't know his name was Roman Volkov, she knew that her world had just collided with something it couldn't crush.