Page 32 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

I pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it. The lighter flared.

Somehow, I didn't like him talking about Anna that way.

Even though I knew this bias was the default in our world—most girls who worked those clubs learned early to trade what they had for security.

Nobody's clean. Nobody's innocent.

But Anna wasn't like that.

I exhaled. Gray smoke drifted past my eyes, blurring the flickering light on the opposite wall.

"Shut it. Do your job."

Dmitri snorted, about to push it further, but my glare cut him off.

I threw him the phone. "Replace all the furniture. Everything new."

I headed out of the warehouse.

Evening air hit my face, carrying the smell of beer from the corner bar. Damp. Almost intoxicating.

I wanted to get home. Tell Anna the news.

She wouldn't be trapped in one house anymore.

I got home at dawn.A floor lamp glowed in the living room.

Victoria sat on the couch in a black silk nightgown, one strap slipping off her shoulder, hanging loose on her arm. Her legs crossed over the edge of the crystal coffee table like she was posing for a magazine cover.

"Ivan. You're back."

She shifted, leaning into the cushions. Her neckline dipped lower.

My stomach turned.

Back when Victoria and I weren't yet divorced, she'd pull this act every time she wanted something.

"Victoria. This isn't your place."

"What does that matter?"

Victoria stood, barefoot on the cold tile, her hem brushing my hand like a slippery snake.

She draped herself over my shoulder, fingers sliding down my shirt. "I'm better for you than that whore you bought, aren't I?"

Whore?

She was calling Anna a whore?

Rich. A woman who'd betrayed her marriage calling someone else a whore.

I turned my head and shoved her hand off my shoulder.

"Get out. This isn't your breeding ground."

Victoria froze.

The seduction cracked, twisted into something bitter. "Ivan, stop pretending. Those trashy mistresses can't know you better than I do."