Page 4 of Corrupt: XXX Vadim 2
Chapter Two
I’ll never forgive myself for who I became during my marriage—a doormat. Not only did Jim completely obliterate my self-esteem, but he convinced me during the process that it was entirely my fault. For so long, I believed that lie…
And one of my promises to myself after the divorce was that no one would hurt me and walk away scot-free ever again. Thus, my list was born—the series of goals I’ve managed to uphold despite a lifetime of failed ambition and broken dreams.
And the most important one? No relationships.
Being spurned by someone like Vadim is exactly what I deserve for forgetting that key vow. For ever forgetting thatmyneeds come first now. Always. While the good lord encouraged forgiveness, the Bible did mention that little thing about an eye for an eye.
Therefore, I intend to gouge out Vadim Gorgoshev’s entirely guilt-free. Step one? I wake up alone and enter the closet with only one goal in mind—finding the most revealing, skin-tight, sluttiest ensemble I can without risking the integrity of my piercing. Screw it. I wear a lacey, see-through bustier and short black tweed skirt that rides up my hips, avoiding pressure on my healing flesh.
Later I’ll reflect on the utter stupidity of letting a virtual stranger pierce my nether regions in the first place. At the moment, revenge is a far more appealing animal. To enhance my look, I leave my hair down and skip a bra entirely.
Mr. Billionaire eat your heart out.
No one will ever again make me feel worthless, as if my only value is at their disposal.
I am a queen. So, I do my makeup in the style of one, and when I finally leave the room, I’m ready for war. Irritatingly, I don’t find my opponent when I venture downstairs. In the kitchen, all I discover is a lone croissant resting on a plate beside a bowl of fresh fruit. As subtle a peace offering that a smug bastard could present without eating crow.
Whatever. I ignore it in favor of scouring the rest of the house in search of him.
I toy with the prospect that he didn’t sleep here at all, ceding this battlefield to me—but then I spot him in the study, slumped over his desk. And a teensy, tiny bit of doubt creeps in, poisoning my heart with…concern. Gone is the calculating, smug businessman. This creature, with his eyes closed and features gaunt, is the epitome of exhaustion.
My fingers twitch rebelliously. Anger takes a backseat for a split second, surrendering to the emotion only he can inspire in me. I have a sudden urge to smooth the hair back from his face and encourage him to go to bed.
I take a step forward… And a tendril of light from the window enhances the planes of his face—and how identical they are to his daughter’s. My anger renewed, I loudly storm back into the kitchen and slam my way through cupboards and drawers until he appears in the doorway, his eyes bloodshot. His gaze settles on my face first, his lips parting. “We need to talk—”
“Or not.” I down a glass of orange juice as I snatch up the croissant and head for the stairs.
He doesn’t follow me, and I spend the rest of the day avoiding him, too terrified that the sight of him may make me break.
And after seven years of cowering, Irefuseto break.
Sleep provides only a brief reprieve. As soon as dawn creeps over the horizon, I steal a pair of masculine sweats from the closet and a set of tennis shoes for good measure. Desperate for fresh air, I head downstairs, but I barely make it through the front door before I sense him behind me.
“Where are you going?”
Gosh, he sounds more haggard than yesterday. I turn to face him and once again feel my resolve being tested. His dress shirt is rumpled, suspiciously resembling the one he wore two days ago. His pants are a wrinkled mess, and his hair sticks out at odd angles—no doubt assaulted all night by raking fingers. He looks so tired. So worn.
With difficulty, I flick my gaze from him and escape into the chilly, dawn morning.
“I’m going for a walk,” I tell him coldly. A part of me flinches at my tone.Chill out, Tiffy.Again, I can’t understand why I’m so angry. Why a sick part of me thrills at making him flinch. Survival instinct? Maybe. I’ll guard my heart at all costs from him, even if it kills me. “Don’t follow me,” I add as I slam the door.
Driven by nervous energy, I explore his property with a singular focus and find myself surprised by how big it is. And at the same time, just how empty it seems. He must control acres and acres, their boundary defined by wooden posts placed at seemingly random intervals. The house itself overlooks a wide pool set in gray stone as well as a private dock and a vacant boathouse. There’s even an empty, lonely stable at the back overlooking a view of the waterfront.
It’s a home that any little girl would dream of living in, and yet it’s almost entirely devoid of anything she might want to do. There is no playground. No dollhouse. No sea of toys to drown herself in.
It’s as if the man found the perfect blueprint for a family home but had absolutely no clue how to fill it. And now the clinical emptiness of the house makes more sense—he’s stuck, torn between who he is at his core, and the man he seeminglywantsto be.
A father.
If I weren’t so angry with him, I’d gently suggest he work some color into the décor. Build a swing set and maybe a garden for her to play in. Does he even have a room picked out for her?
Yes,I suspect, recalling the one upstairs that he requested I avoid. But something tells me that even it is empty. Was he expecting his fake wife to lend him expertise in that arena? It sounds so stupid—a man like him with so many resources could easily hire someone to help him design a little girl’s room. At the same time, it fits. Vadim is so cripplingly self-conscious, he wouldn’t trust anyone to help. Not even me, the woman who bared her soul to him. Who claimed to want a relationship with him.
Who now hates him.
I reinforce that last statement as I return to the house dripping sweat, only to find an unfamiliar vehicle in the driveway—a stocky, serviceable minivan. When I ease open the front door, a sharp voice reaches my ears, and I hesitate over the threshold, straining to listen.
