Chapter 126 – Ivan
I'm accustomed to being the center of attention—this kind of attention.
Eyes follow me across the ballroom, their gazes dipped in disdain and barely veiled disgust. Old money, new money, desperate money. Animosity thickens the air like cheap cologne. For a brief moment, I almost feel self-conscious, the fizz of shame bubbling up beneath my skin.
Then I feel Zander's warm hand on my waist.
Ah. Right. What was I worried about again?
You'd have to pry Zander Vale out of my cold, dead hands before I gave him up. A man that adores me, protects me, spoils me—and, let's be honest, looks like he could model for the cover of a romance novel?
Ha. Never.
Zander is the universe's apology to me. A cosmic reparation for the nightmare Jackson was. So gold digger or not, public enemy or not, I'm exactly where I belong.
Don't they know Leprechauns are greedy little creatures? And this pot of gold? Is mine. Stamped. Claimed. Tattooed on my soul.
I make eye contact with Miss Wannabe-Fiancée across the ballroom. She tries to look superior—like she hasn't been foaming at the mouth watching us circulate with grace and defiance. I wink at her. Then deliberately wrap my arm around Zander's, leaning in until our hips touch.
The rest of the evening is as boring as expected. Champagne. Small talk. Board members. Cameras. I twirl the stem of my glass and lean against the wall, one leg crossed over the other like I own the place—because, frankly, I might as well.
Zander is off talking to a group of business executives. He's dazzling, as always. I'm watching him when I hear it:
"How pathetic."
I don't turn.
The voice is like a roach in a glass of wine. I sigh, already regretting this conversation.
"Even if you wear fancy clothes and makeup, it doesn't change your origins," Dorian says. "Your in-laws are furious with you. Must sting."
I take a sip. "You seem pleased, given the press tour full of bullshit you've been spouting."
He chuckles, the sound slimy. I glance at him. He's still handsome, of course. The original male lead, after all unfortunately it's all looks, no soul. A waste of good bone structure.
"No hard feelings," he shrugs. "Couldn't miss the chance to watch your little house of cards fall and toss gasoline into the fire."
"Don't worry," I say with a yawn, "Nothing you do can hurt me."
"Someone's gotten gutsy since finding a rich dick to hop on."
"Correction," I say, taking a slow sip of my champagne, "I found a richer and bigger dick to hop on."
His jaw clenches. Too easy, what a short temper.
"Your memory must be failing," I continue, tone glacial. "I did that to you long before Zander was in the picture. One thing I do regret, though…" I tilt my head, feigning thought.
"Not slitting your throat when I had the chance. Might've spared Harry some trauma."
His whole face shifts, the mask slipping.
"You bas—"
"Careful," I say, smile widening. "My fiancé gets a little... murdery when it comes to me."
He freezes. The mere mention of Zander always takes the courage out of cowards.
"How dare you—" he tries again.
"How dare I not?" I cut him off, voice silk wrapped around razor wire. "You're still so confused, Dorian. Still acting like I owe you dignity."
"I made you, I gave you everything." He spits.
I'm shocked. Is this man serious? What delusions must he have going in his head?
"No," I say, taking a step closer.
"I was your little puppet. Your private plaything. Sex slave. Punching bag. Therapist. PR doll. And when you finally tired of me, all you had to offer was a couple of expired ad deals and a shitty 'thank you'—before you tried to sell me."
His eye twitches. Good.
"To a brothel, Dorian. You were going to sellme like used furniture." I take another step closer. He doesn't move.
"You're not just a narcissistic piece of shit, with entitlement and insecurities to match, the empathy and human moral decency of a fucking rock.You're the kind of man who sets the building on fire and cries when he gets burned."
He's fuming now. His fists are clenched so tightly I can hear his knuckles strain.
I glance at his cheek, smirking. "Is that a new scar?" I ask sweetly.
"You better change Mr. Black your next boy toy might aim lower."
"You fucking bitch—"
"God, that's the best you've got?" I laugh. "Bitch, slut, whore—please, you're just reading from my fanmail at this point."
I step even closer, close enough that I can see the little vein pulsing at his temple. My voice drops to a whisper, meant only for him.
"Tell me, how long did it take them to find you, Dorian? Hm?" I purr.
"How long were you alone... in the dark... cold floor scraping your knees… and nothing to keep you company but the sound of water…"
I pause. Lean in.
"Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. Into the bowl."
He flinches—visibly—and I watch the fear bleed through the anger in his eyes. That same fear I used to wear.
He twitches like he's about to grab me.
And then—he's gone.
Zander's hand closes around his arm and slams him back, shoving him a full step away from me like he weighs nothing.
"Backoff," my fiancé says, his voice all gravel and fury, low and dangerous enough to make me straighten. That tone?
Yeah. It's doing things to me.
God, I love when he gets scary on my behalf. I love him when he's soft, when he's amused, when he's sleepy.
But like this?
I want to climb him like a tree and commit crimes.
"It's okay," I say sweetly, looping an arm around Zander's bicep and guiding him away. "He's not worth it."
Zander doesn't take his eyes off Dorian, but he lets me lead him away. As we pass, I turn, catch Dorian's eye…
…and stick out my tongue.
Because why not?