Page 7 of Viper’s Reign

The fucker.

What makes you too good for Millie? I scowl at his picture.

Then my stomach drops.

Shit. If she couldn’t get close to him, what chance do I have?

2

GRACE

No matter how long I stare at my reflection in the mirror, it’s hard to believe what I’m seeing.

That’s me.

The navy-blue dress against my skin tone is stunning, the velvet so rich it seems to drink in the light and throw it back out as glitter. The wrapped bodice dips into a V-shaped neckline that flatters my chest, held up by the slimmest, most delicate straps. Below that, the long flowing skirt swishes with each step and clings to my curves when I stand still, while a thigh-high slit adds the right amount of daring.

I do a slow twirl. This is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn in my entire twenty-one years of life. And I love it, damn it.

The heels give me a few extra inches, making my legs appear even longer. My hair—courtesy of a stylist I was “encouraged” to see this afternoon—falls in deep, glossy waves from a side part, the color richer and warmer than ever. I did my own makeup, a nude that ties everything together without competing with the dress, and clipped on a pair of expensive-looking but cheap chandelier earrings I got myself for my birthday this year.

I look like a million bucks. Every inch the wealthy, polished woman that Laura Holmer is supposed to be. Confidence hums through me as I take it all in, sparking a defiance that keeps the fear temporarily at bay.

Dimitri Petrov won’t know what hit him.

I do one more twirl for good measure, then grab the clutch holding my lipstick, compact powder, small brush, the invitation card, and a Laura Holmer ID.

A black limousine is waiting outside to take me to the venue. My blackmailer’s doing, obviously. The driver doesn’t bother to get out—something I expected—so I tug the door open myself and slide in, careful with the skirt, and we merge into traffic without a word exchanged.

The road approaching the North Cove Marina is a slow, glittering procession of quiet money. Luxury sedans and black SUVs, one after another, inching toward the velvet rope. I’ve never seen this many expensive cars in one place, and it takes real effort to sit still instead of pressing my face against the window like a child.

My stomach has been gurgling nervously since we turned onto this road, only getting worse the closer we get to the entrance. In a few minutes, I’ll walk into a room full of the rich and legitimately dangerous and pretend to belong there.

Strings of gold light hang overhead, illuminating the marina as guests step out of their cars one by one—women in designer everything, men in perfectly tailored suits—and are checked in by security staff with earpieces and sleek tablets.

When it’s finally my turn, the valet opens my door with a polite smile. “Welcome to SecureTech Expo Night, ma’am.”

I return a smile that I hope reads as composed and climb out carefully. The heels click against the pavement as I walk toward the check-in station, where I hand over my invitation and ID. I hold my breath as the guard scans them, taps his tablet twice, then passes both back to me. Thank God.

From there, I move to the next checkpoint. This guard picks up a slim black bracelet—leather-like, with the Volks Security logo embedded in the band—and holds it out to me. “Put this on, ma’am. It grants you access to the deck.”

I slip it on obediently, the band cool against my skin. A small green light blinks once before going dark. The guard steps aside. “Enjoy your night, ma’am.”

My heart is practically sitting in my throat as I step past the stanchion. How did my blackmailer even get an invitation to this? And who the hell is Laura Holmer? I hope the woman is okay, if she actually exists. I push the thought away as I approach the yacht and tilt my head back all the way to see the top of the thing. But it keeps going. It’s that massive. And it belongs to Volks Security.

My confidence wobbles. What could I possibly say to impress a man who owns a monstrosity like this? A man who is constantly surrounded by beautiful women?

A flash of light grabs my attention. There’s a carpet at the entrance—not red, but a deep midnight blue that almost looks black—and two men and a woman with cameras are snapping pictures of the arriving guests. I walk past, and a few flashes pop in my direction.

“Over here, beautiful!” the woman calls out. I glance at her, confused, and her shutter fires, the flash nearly blinding me. “Perfect.” She winks.

My stomach twists. Shit. A photo of me here, at this event, under a name that isn’t mine—that’s evidence that could be used to find me later if this damn mission goes wrong.

You think Dimitri Petrov couldn’t find you without it? The mocking question chills my blood as I hurry up the illuminated gangway. With the connections he has through his company and family business, he could probably dig up my entire life in an instant if he wanted. Hell, I hear he’s even into politics now. No space is safe from him.

At the deck, two waitresses flank the entry, each holding a tray of champagne flutes. The one on my right offers me one with a practiced smile. “Welcome aboard the Volya, Miss Holmer.”

I pause. How the hell does she know my name? I accept the drink, trying not to let my surprise show, then move farther into the deck so I’m not blocking the line behind me.