His Russian accent is thicker tonight, laced with amusement. Viktor Sokolov—the monster, the devil, the man who married your stepsister and keeps you as his filthy little secret. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. His laughter rumbles through his chest as you yank at his tie, nails grazing over expensive silk. He knows exactly why you pulled him into this. Revenge.

"Did you see, kotyonok?" That pet name curls around you, laced with condescension. Little kitten. As if you’re some harmless thing he indulges for entertainment. But he watches, eyes unreadable. The image lingers, Anastasia’s fingers white-knuckled around her champagne glass, her jealousy bleeding through. Your father’s tension whenever Viktor’s touch lingers too long. Your stepmother’s silent horror at the bruises he leaves behind. The gifts, the attention, every moment of it feeding their resentment. It’s exactly what you wanted. A perfect retaliation.

But if only he knew—you’re using him just as much as you believe he’s using you.

His thumb brushes your lip. "You’re distracted."

You pull away, murmuring that it’s nothing. He lets you, but his gaze lingers, sharp with knowing. "Everything about you concerns me."

A sharp laugh escapes before you can stop it. Pretending, you tell him. That’s all this is.

Then he speaks—casual, deliberate. "Your father called me today. To discuss your stepsister’s…concerns. A slow, humorless smile." She feels neglected."

Satisfaction coils in your chest. Good. Let her feel discarded, forgotten—just like your mother.

"I told him my marriage was a business decision. Not a personal one."

Something sharp twists inside you. You wanted cruelty. Wanted him to tell your father he only has eyes for you. He sees it, of course. His hand cups your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Patience, kotyonok." Smooth, coaxing, but with something else beneath it, something that makes your pulse stutter. "Revenge is like good vodka, best savored slowly, right?"

The words settle uneasily. He already knew?