by Lana Sky
“I’ll be good, I promise,” I tell him with a smile.
But he isn’t even looking in my direction. He eyes the house up ahead as though it’s a battlefield. One he’s willing to dominate at all costs.
A shiver of unease runs through me as I follow him, finding my balance in my new—and higher—stilettos. A paved stone path leads to a wide porch at the front of the house. We’ve barely managed to mount the first step when the door flies open so brutally it slams into the wall and ricochets off with a sound like a gunshot.
Startled, I jump and nearly trip off the steps entirely, but Vadim’s hand captures my hip, righting my balance.
“You dare come here?” a man demands, his voice heavily accented and booming like thunder. I have to crane my neck back to take him in; he’s so tall. So huge. A wall of muscle, he nearly consumes the entire doorway, barely leaving space for the startled people standing behind him. He radiates fury, his expression so cold I’m instantly chilled and find myself inching closer to Vadim.
Not that he’s a beacon of warmth at the moment—he’s trembling even more than before.
“Let him in, Maxim,” a softer, less stern voice commands from within the house. A British accent plays with the speaker’s pronunciation, making every word sound stern yet polite. “Tell me, is causing a scene really worth it? Now? Here?”
Maxim, presumably the big man, finally stands aside. Light from inside the house spills out, illuminating the long blond hair streaming down his shoulders. Angular features craft a handsome, if stern, face, and his eyes are so dark, they seem to feed on the shadows.
“If it breaks the tension, I invited him,” the British speaker insists. A dark-haired man steps forward, wearing a gunmetal gray suit. He’s alluringly handsome, but something in his gaze makes me look away rather than ogle. Wolves are pretty too, but even I know better than to make eye contact with one.
“Come, Dima,” he adds. “I’m sure you came here only to celebrate with us.”
I know a warning not to piss on the couch when I hear it. Usually, said warnings are directed toward me. Be good, Tiffy. Don’t fuck this up, Tiffy. Just be fucking normal, Tiffany!
“I’ll try to be on my very best behavior,” Vadim simpers. The shift in his personality is even more palpable now. I glance over to find his eyes flashing, ignited with that mischievous gleam times a million.
Uh, oh. A part of me warns. What the hell have I stepped into?
All I can do is follow all three men into the house where I quickly realize that—one, it’s just as beautiful as the outside. Two, if sexy was the dress code, then I’m the only person who got the memo.
In addition to the three men, two women linger on the outskirts of a massive, open floor plan living room. Both wear modest and yet fashionable black gowns presumably tailored to their individual preferences. A slender brunette wears hers slightly short, but with a conservative neckline while a striking blond models a slightly longer design with fashionable sleeves. Though, strangely, she looks just as uncomfortable as I feel being here, her large eyes darting between all three men.
It doesn’t take me long to realize what might be guiding their fashion choices—the presence of children. Small ones. Bigger ones. At least six in total stand scattered throughout the room. A little boy with huge brown eyes takes one look at me and scampers over to a small girl with long sandy hair. “You can see her boobies,” he stage-whispers to her.
And I feel slapped. Used. My entire body tenses up with the realization that he urged me to dress this way on purpose. To cause a scene. Prove a point. It’s happened before—being the girl who arrives to a party braless in a thin white T-shirt because she was stupid enough to fall for the “It’s a charity wet T-shirt contest” line.
Humiliation washes over me in crippling, searing waves, and all I want to do is sink into the floor and die. Old Tiffy would have. She would have crumbled to pieces and run from this room in tears. She would have berated herself for being so stupid. So weak. She would be an easy target.
But I’m not her anymore.
Reigning in the shame takes all of five seconds. I jut my chin into the air, square my shoulders, and plaster a charming grin on my face the likes of which would make my mother proud.
“Oh gosh, I am so sorry,” I declare, laughing politely. Haha, silly me. “Poor Vadim tried to warn me that this dress might be a bit much, but I didn’t pay him any mind.” I turn to him and playfully slap him on the forearm—hard. If he notices the hostility, his expression doesn’t show it. “If it isn’t too much trouble, could I borrow a jacket or a shawl?”
“Here, Miss.” An older gentleman steps forward and shrugs his own suit jacket from his shoulders, offering it to me.
I shimmy into it, balancing my gifts. I can sense Vadim watching me from the corner of my eye, the bastard. Smiling harder, I turn the charm up to eleven.
“You must be the brother,” I exclaim, turning to the dark-haired man. It’s a logical guess, considering his hair color, but when I glance at the blond man, I realize my mistake. No two creatures could possess eyes that shade by accident. “My apologies. You are the brother,” I declare, turning to him. Smiling prettily, I extend my gift and force myself to meet his cold, piercing stare. “I’m Tiffany. Thank you so much for inviting us. We picked out something small to show our appreciation.” When he doesn’t take the present, I laugh nervously. Desperate for an escape, I set it down on a nearby end table instead. “And your fiancée must be…” I pivot and spot the two women again. The blond eyes me, her expression unreadable, but the brunette looks as uncomfortable as a deer in the headlights. Bingo.
“You must be the fiancée!” I cross to her and nearly sigh in relief when she accepts the gift.
“I’m Francesca,” she says softly. Her voice lacks an accent, at least, but she’s young. Really young. I do a double take of Vadim’s brother, and I have to fight back the inner judgmental voice wondering just how young she truly is.
“Well, I’m so sorry we made a scene,” I say, returning to Vadim’s side. He’s rigid, unmoving even as I grasp his hand and shamelessly dig my nails into the palm of it.
He’ll pay for this later. Oh, he will so pay. But for now, I know it’s better to play my part and bide my time. No one will ever make a fool of me again, out of spite or otherwise.
“So, what are we celebrating?” I ask.
The two brooding men share a look.
“An engagement,” Vadim says before either one can offer up an answer themselves.
“Lovely!” I clap my hands, my smile beaming. “Congratulations!”
I swear everyone flinches.
But I take the awkward tension as a challenge. I will survive this, so help me, God.
Or I will gleefully take Vadim down with me.
Chapter Six
When it comes to parties and how to play them to their fullest, there is no match for a mansion born, cotillion raised Connors socialite. I learned from the best—Genevieve Mackenzie Adalynn Connors, who operated her events with me balanced on her hip while juggling a serving tray and a hospitable smile.
She had the grace and charm required to turn any hostile gathering into a soiree so warm and welcoming; she could sow world peace if the room were big enough. Emulating her, I only manage to simmer what tensions lurk between these men to the barest minimum—and I’m nearly sweating with the effort.
Dinner is an awkward lesson in how to juggle the tersest small talk with a grin and a funny quip.
“So when is your wedding?” I ask, referring to the supposed reason for this “party.”
Maxim and his fiancée share a searching glance. “Soon,” he says in a tone that makes me scramble for my glass of wine. “It will be a private affair.” His eyes slice in Vadim’s direction with chilling intensity. I have a feeling he won’t be getting an invite.
“What a shame,” Vadim replies, his teeth bared. “I was so looking forward to witnessing the nuptials. Some might say we’d thought
to never see the day you’d settle down with one of your women.”
“I’ve always preferred intimate ceremonies,” I blurt in a rush, parrying the incoming blow from Maxim before the man can even open his mouth. Across the table, poor Francesca’s cheeks turn blood red though the children innocently chatter amongst themselves, oblivious. Thank God. “I wish I’d had a small wedding,” I add wistfully. “Maybe a destination one?”
At least then, I could look back on the memories fondly. Instead, my only recollections consist of sweating in a massive gown bought on my parent’s dime while being paraded before what seemed like the entire parish. That day, instead of marital bliss, my main takeaway from the experience is the memory of the pain from holding a fake smile in place for sixteen hours.
I’m so lost in the nostalgia that I barely notice the rest of the conversation has gone silent. Good. As far as social landscapes go, this one is my most challenging battlefield yet. I feel like I’m juggling knives. One wrong move, and everyone gets stabbed in the eye.
But I manage, with no assistance from the very man who brought me here.
Something happens to him in the presence of his brother. Something dark that festers within him, seeping out in cold, icy sarcasm and glittering, unreadable eyes.
It’s the eyes that unnerve me the most. His wall is back in place, higher than ever. Insurmountable.
“At least you’re dressed fucking decently,” his brother hisses as we get through most of the first course. “Have you grown bored of crawling in the shadows, luring children away?”
The British man, Milton, lifts his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I have,” Vadim replies with a manic grin. He’s still shivering, more noticeably than before. I can’t resist slipping my hand into his pocket, hoping to provide some warmth—but he recoils from me so violently he jolts the entire table.
“This has been lovely,” he says, lurching to his feet in an enviable display of grace. “Sadly, we must be going.”
“Awww!” The little girl whines from her spot near the end of the table. “You have to go now?”
“Ainsley…” Francesca cuts her gaze in the girl’s direction, her tone a warning.
Undeterred, Ainsley pouts. “I wanted to show you my pony, Uncle Dima.”
“Some other time,” he says before taking a gallant bow.
“Wait.” Milton inclines his head toward Maxim. Something wordlessly passes between the two of them. Then Milton turns to Vadim. “Dinner,” he says. “Neutral territory. Next week?”
Vadim says nothing and starts from the room, leaving me to follow. At the door, I return the jacket to the older man, and by the time I leave the house, Vadim is already at the car.
With his back to me, he palms the door. “You survived.” He has the nerve to sound surprised at that. Impressed.
“Fuck. You,” I spit, utilizing the dirtiest word in my newfound freedom-vocabulary. When he whirls around, an eyebrow cocked in amusement; I lose any shred of restraint. Leveling him with my nastiest glare, I go off. “You used me. You dragged me here, for what? To make your brother think you disrespected him by bringing some stupid slut around his children? To his home? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Plenty.” His jaw clenches, his expression icier than ever. “You earned this, I suppose,” he says, flicking something at me too quickly to catch. Thin, rectangular, and silver, it lands at my feet—some type of business card. “When you make a reservation, use my name,” he states. “Otherwise, you won’t be allowed entry.”
I eye the card again, recognizing it for what it is. The price of my humiliation, it seems—entrance to some exclusive sex club.
“You know what? Screw you!” I flip him the finger and start down the driveway, staggering in my heels. “Do you know how you made me feel?”
“Inconvenienced?” he guesses in that cutting tone. “The feeling was mutual, I can assure you—”
“Sabotaged,” I snap, whirling to face him. “Insulted. Humiliated. Hurt. I told myself a long time ago that I would never let anyone ever make me feel that way again.”
Go figure. I’ve failed in that respect.
“Consider it practice for when you bare yourself before strangers who only want to fuck you,” he suggests. “I do hope you enjoy the amenities. I hear they’re quite debauched.”
My cheeks flame and something inside me snaps. “Practice? Oh, trust me, I don’t need any practice. After that night with you, I’m desperate to be ogled by someone who doesn’t think he’s too good to have his cock sucked.”
His eyes widen and narrow in quick succession. Did I hit a sore spot? Gosh, I hope so.
“Does this get you off rather than fucking?” I wonder, gesturing around us with a harsh, cackling laugh. “Bringing me all the way across the country to what? Get under your brother’s skin? Hurt some sleazy slut who had the nerve to approach you? Well, sorry to break it to you, but I’m fine, Vadim. I am more than fine!” I stroll past him and stoop for the business card, brandishing it like a hard-fought trophy. “You know what, I will go get ogled by strangers, and I’m going to enjoy every fucking minute of it! I’m going to fuck as many men as I can, too. Suck every last cock that will have me, and then…” My chest heaves, my body radiating anger, and I have to gulp down enough air just to keep going. “I’m going to compare every last one of them to yours. How they feel. How they taste. From now on, I’m going to keep a running tally of all the bastards who fuck better than Vadim Gorgoshev could ever dream. Choke on that while you’re on your private plane.”
Card in tow, I keep marching down the driveway, blinking rapidly. Almost there, Tiffy, I plead with my inner waterworks. Just a little more. You can make it.
“Oh, and don’t think you’ve stranded me or that I’ll be crying out on the street tonight,” I shout back to Vadim. “Call and have the hotel switch the room over to me. I can pay for it. Have a good fucking night, Vadim. I hope you run into a beautiful escort, one-hundred percent your type who fleeces you for all you’re worth.”
“You really think you can walk back to the city?” he wonders in a voice like steel.
I flick my hair over my shoulder and walk faster. “Watch me.”
He makes a sound between a grunt and scoff. Not even a full minute later, his sports car is racing past me, leaving me in the dust.
I wave at him with none of the decorum befitting a well-bred lady.
Then I suck in air, wobble on my heels, and the tears start coming down hard. I must get lost—enough for someone from the house to take pity on me. It isn’t long before another car pulls up alongside me. The driver is the same kind-eyed figure who let me borrow his jacket.
“Can I give you a ride, Miss?” he says, his tone polite.
I sniffle and nod, climbing into the backseat.
Then I endure the ride into the city, plotting the next phase of my adventure—shameless, sexual revenge.
Chapter Seven
I can’t actually afford the hotel room by myself. Realistically, anyway. I can last about three days tops, and that’s if I completely decimate what little savings I have. I could always call my parents, but I’ve suffered enough of their pity to last a lifetime. Besides, I’d rather not deal with Daddy bribing me to come back home or hear my mother cry about “the state of my only little girl’s life” one more time.
So I approach the front desk, ready and willing to swallow the cost no matter the pain.
“I’m sorry,” the hostess informs me, frowning at her computer screen. “It looks like the room has already been paid in full for the week, complete with an open tab for room service.”
I frown. Could Vadim be planning to claim the suite for himself? What a dick. He might already be there right now, screwing some blond escort submissive enough to fit his preferences.
“You are listed as the room’s primary occupant,” the hostess adds, scouring her records. “Ms. Connors, correct? It looks like the change was just freshly made. Abo
ut an hour ago. I could always refund the card on record—”
“No.” I turn on my heel and head for the elevator, squashing all doubt. “Thanks for your help.”
I reenter the suite to find my bags where I left them and everything else in place, though neatly arranged, the bed turned down by some over-eager housekeeper.
So this must be Vadim’s idea of the ultimate kiss-off. Leave me in an unfamiliar city. Pay off the incredibly expensive room he stuck me in. Leave without a trace.
And I thought Jim could be an asshole.
Dejected, I sink onto the bed and sob in earnest. I let out every ugly, choking, nasty cry and allow the tears to stream down my cheeks in earnest. Then I find the remote to a flat-screen TV hidden behind a pair of black curtains hanging across from the bed, turn to the music channels, and find the most upbeat pop imaginable. I play it as loud as I dare, shed my dress, and then hop into the bathroom and face myself in the mirror.
Years wasted in a loveless marriage can teach a girl a lot of things. Like that, no one—no gosh darn one—is worth losing your self-respect for. No one can make you feel any lower than you allow them to, and no one should ever rob you of your smile.
I smile now, displaying my teeth at the exhausted woman before me.
“You are confident,” I tell her. “You are bold, and vivacious, and sexy. And—” A new addition to my mantra, but ad-libbing is all part of the exploration of freedom. “You are going to march into that sex club and own the darn place! Vadim, who?”
I manage to work the shower properly and then crawl into bed, feeling fresh and renewed. This might be a setback, sure.
Or it could be the real start to my adventures in sexual freedom.