My Husband Is A Psychopath

Chapter 8: Meeting the Ex's

Nicholaus POV — Vlatislov Estate, Midnight

The second I stepped into the foyer, I knew something was off.

The soldiers at the door wouldn’t meet my eyes.

The maids were whispering like rodents.

And the entire estate smelled faintly of alcohol—

MY estate.

A place where not even my generals dared to breathe too loudly.

I narrowed my eyes and followed the scent.

When I pushed open the bedroom door, I froze.

There she was.

Anya Frances Von Hemsworth Vlatislov.

My wife.

My problem.

Sitting on the floor — MY expensive carpet — with her hair a mess, cheeks flushed pink, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey hugging her lap like a stuffed toy.

She looked up at me…

squinting.

Then pointed.

“Ohhhhh… look who’s home. The big bad general… the SLAYER OF FUN.”

I blinked.

“…You’re drunk.”

She giggled. Actually giggled.

“Correction— I am relaxing, because your mother put me in twelve hours of aristocratic torture.”

I clenched my jaw.

“I told you not to steal the alcohol.”

She held up the bottle and grinned.

“Well guess what? I DID. And it was delicious.”

My eye twitched. “Give me the bottle.”

“No.”

She hugged it tighter.

Like it was a newborn child.

I stepped closer. “Anya.”

She shook her head dramatically. “Nichooo. Listen. Listen carefully. I am— hic — a prisoner here. A very, very beautiful prisoner.” She gestured grandly. “So I deserve… refreshments.”

I actually had to rub the bridge of my nose.

Then she suddenly pointed at me again.

“And YOU!” she accused. “Why are you handsome tonight? You smell like perfume. Did you—did you buy flowers? Huh?! Tell me!”

I stiffened. “I did not buy flowers.”

Her eyes widened. “YOU DID?! AND YOU THREW IT AWAY?! YOU— YOU UNROMANTIC DICTATOR!”

She threw a pillow at me.

It bounced off my chest.

The maids gasped outside.

I slowly turned back to Anya, who was now pouting at the floor.

“…Get up,” I muttered.

“No.”

“Anya.”

She flopped backward like a dead fish. “Carry me then.”

My brow twitched—

and then, despite myself,

I laughed under my breath.

Damn woman.

Damn witch.

Crawling into my skull again.

I walked to her, scooped her up into my arms.

She squeaked and wrapped her arms around my neck.

“You’re too warm,” she mumbled into my collar.

I swallowed hard.

“…You’re impossible.”

She tilted her head, eyes half-closed. “But you like me.”

I didn’t answer.

Because that was the part that terrified me the most.

***

Anya POV — Vlatislov Estate, Our Bedroom

(Still Drunk as Hell)

Mmm…

Warm…

Soft…

Why the hell does my neck feel like someone is kissing it?

I fluttered my eyes open—barely—and everything was blurry.

But god, whatever was happening felt too damn good.

A shiver crawled down my spine as lips traced the curve of my neck, slow and sinful.

“Ohhh… f**k…”

I arched instinctively.

The bed dipped.

A hand tightened around my waist.

And then—

He moved inside me.

My breath hitched, pleasure slamming through me so fast I couldn’t even think.

“Ahhhh— f-f**k… f**k me harder—”

I moaned without a second thought, drunk as s**t and not fully awake.

Then a low voice growled at my ear, deep and rough:

“Already begging, kotyonok?

I haven’t even started.”

My eyes snapped open.

Oh.

Oh hell.

Nicholaus.

THE DEVIL GENERAL.

The monster husband.

The man who ruined my entire pelvic bone last night.

And here I am moaning like an i***t.

I grabbed his shoulder. “W-wait—! I was sleeping—”

He smirked against my neck, his breath hot.

“You were calling for it in your sleep.”

He rolled his hips again, slow and cruel.

“And who am I to deny my wife what she begs for?”

“I WASN’T— I DIDN’T—”

“Really?” he murmured, nibbling my skin.

“Because I heard ‘harder’ very clearly.”

I nearly died on the spot.

“YOU— YOU TOOK ADVANTAGE OF A DRUNK PERSON!”

He actually laughed.

A deep, wicked, satisfied laugh.

“You wrapped your legs around me first.”

I froze.

“…I did not.”

“You did.”

Another thrust.

“You still are.”

I looked down.

My legs were indeed hooked tightly around his waist.

“Oh my GOD—”

“Too late to deny it now,” he whispered, kissing my collarbone.

“Now shut up, moya zhena.

You started this.”

I swear, someone bury me alive.

***

Nicholaus POV — Vlatislov Estate, Our Bedroom

I swear this woman is cursing me in her drunk little mind right now.

She keeps glaring at me between moans like I’m the reason her life is falling apart—

which, fine, I am—

but she’s also clinging to me like her life depends on it.

Her nails dragged down my back.

Her legs tightened around me again.

Hell.

If she thinks I’m stopping until morning, she’s delusional.

And then—

because the devil in me enjoys watching her lose her sanity—

I leaned down, brushing her lips with mine, and whispered:

“Do you want a baby?”

Her entire body froze.

Her eyes flew wide open.

If looks could kill, I’d drop dead on the mattress.

“WHAT— THE— f**k— DID YOU JUST SAY—?!” she yelled, voice breaking.

I bit back a grin. “You heard me.”

She slapped my chest. “NO. NO BABY. ABSOLUTELY NOT. DON’T YOU DARE—”

I kissed her just to shut her up.

“Relax,” I murmured against her lips, pretending innocence.

“I’m teasing you.”

“I HATE YOU—!”

“Mm. You didn’t say that last night.”

“THAT WAS BECAUSE YOU—”

“Because I what?” I tilted my head, smirking.

“Because I made you scream until you passed out?”

She opened her mouth—

closed it—

opened it—

then shoved her face into the pillow and screamed into it instead.

Her reaction was priceless.

I chuckled, pinning her hips as she tried to escape.

“You should’ve seen your face,” I said.

“Absolutely not a yes.”

She glared over her shoulder, hair a mess, cheeks red, eyes full of murder.

“If you put a baby in me, Nicholaus, I SWEAR— I WILL— I WILL—"

“You’ll what?” I leaned down to whisper in her ear, voice low and amused.

“Divorce me?”

She froze again.

I smirked.

“That’s what I thought.”

***

Anya POV — Moscow, Central Mall

The next morning—

or should I say, the next night because I swear I didn’t sleep at all—

I looked like the walking dead.

My mother-in-law dragged me out of the mansion at 8 a.m. sharp, smiling like sunshine while I looked like a corpse. Eye bags, sore legs, body still trembling from last night’s… hell.

“Stand straight, dear,” she whispered as we walked into Central Mall.

Girl, I can barely stand at all.

Shopping.

Bags.

Shoes.

Dresses.

More dresses.

Less sleep.

More trauma.

My soul left my body halfway through the boutique.

Then—

the universe apparently decided to f**k with me harder—

A tall, beautiful woman with shiny hair and a model walk approached us and greeted my mother-in-law like they were doing some rich-people ritual.

“Hi Auntie Anzelina,” she said sweetly, kissing her cheek.

She turned to me immediately.

And her face changed.

Instant judgment.

Instant “who the hell is this peasant” energy.

“Who is she?” she asked, lips curling like I’m a cockroach someone stepped on.

Before I could flip her off,

Anzelina smiled proudly and introduced me:

“Oh, Alena, this is Nicholaus’ wife. Anya Frances Vlatislov—daughter of Prime Minister Augustus Von Hemsworth.”

I forced a polite smile.

That woman, Alena, looked me up and down like she was calculating which way to stab me first.

Then she smirked.

“Oh. So you are the one Nicholaus was forced to marry?”

Excuse me?

She extended her perfectly manicured hand.

“I’m Alena Marushka. Nicholaus’ ex-girlfriend.”

I stared at her.

Smiled.

Dead inside.

“Oh,” I said sweetly, shaking her hand.

“So you’re the ex-girlfriend he didn’t marry.”

Her smile cracked.

Good.

***

Alena POV — Central Mall

I hate her.

I absolutely hate her.

I don’t care if she’s the daughter of a Prime Minister or the Queen of England—

she’s nothing but an annoying little brat wearing expensive clothes she doesn’t deserve.

I swallowed a whole bottle of sleeping pills for that man.

A whole f*****g bottle.

And where was he?

Not at the hospital.

Not even a phone call.

Not even a text.

Nothing.

Nicholaus Henrik Vlatislov didn’t care if I lived, died, or turned into ashes.

And now here she is…

this girl…

this spoiled little Vienna princess

staring back at me like she owns the world.

The rage boiling inside me could burn Moscow.

But in front of Auntie Anzelina,

I have to pretend sweetness incarnate.

I force a smile so tight it almost cracks my face.

“Oh my, Auntie, she’s… adorable.”

I look at Anya with mock affection.

“I mean, of course Nicholaus would marry someone so… cute.”

She rolls her eyes. “Cute? I’m not a dog.”

I ignore her, still fake smiling.

“I’m so happy for the both of you,” I lie.

The words taste like poison.

“I hope your marriage is… pleasant.”

The way I say “pleasant” is dripping with venom.

Auntie Anzelina doesn’t notice.

But Anya does.

Of course she does.

She smirks at me, crossing her arms.

“Well, it’s been very… exciting so far,” she says, then leans forward as if sharing a secret.

Especially because I’m the one he sleeps with now.”

Her smirk burns me alive.

My nails dig into my palm.

I keep smiling.

“I’m sure it won’t last,” I whisper back with a charming expression.

Anya raises a brow. “Oh sweetheart, I think it already has.”

That brat.

I want to strangle her with her own designer purse.

Instead, I stand there, smiling, pretending, acting civil and sweet—

while inside?

Inside,

I’m vibrating with pure, murderous envy.

***

Anya POV — Central Mall, Escalator of Suffering

After that b***h Alena finally left, I prayed to every saint in Moscow

that I wouldn’t meet another woman claiming she once rode the Nicholaus Express.

But apparently heaven hates me.

Or maybe I offended every angel in existence.

We were just riding the escalator—me wishing for death—when two gorgeous Barbie-lookalikes waved enthusiastically at my mother-in-law.

“Auntie Anzelina!! Long time no see!”

They hugged her, chatted, complimented her dress…

and completely ignored me like I was invisible dirt on the floor.

Typical.

They kept asking about Nicholaus, giggling like schoolgirls, twirling their hair, batting their lashes.

And then they left with suspiciously shiny smiles.

I sighed. “Who were they?”

My mother-in-law answered so casually I swear she didn’t realize she just threw a bomb on my face.

“Oh, those two? Just some of Nicholaus’ little flings.”

Flings?

As in plural?

As in more than one?

As in WHY DID I LEAVE VIENNA?!

My eye twitched.

I inhaled.

I exhaled.

“Mother… in law…” I asked, bracing myself.

“…How many ex-girlfriends does Nicholaus have?”

She waved her hand dismissively, smiling like this was perfectly normal.

“Oh dear, not more than hundreds.”

I froze mid-step.

My hand tightened on the escalator rail.

My soul left my body.

I think I died.

“H-hundreds…?” I croaked.

She nodded calmly. “Yes. He’s… very popular.”

Popular?

POPULAR?!

My knees almost buckled.

I swear my vision turned black.

I whispered to myself, “I should’ve stayed in Vienna. I should’ve never answered that phone call. I should’ve run away with Enzo and Ava. I should’ve become a nun.”

Anzelina smiled sweetly at me, completely unaware of my internal funeral.

“Oh Anya dear, don’t worry. He married you, didn’t he?”

“…I think that made it worse,” I muttered.

Right now?

I want to throw myself off this escalator.

***

Nicholaus POV – Moscow, Military Headquarters

The snow outside kept slamming against the reinforced windows like it was trying to get inside—persistent, irritating. I was buried in classified documents when the door opened without a knock.

Alena.

Of course.

She entered like she owned the damn place, fur coat still dusted white, lips already twisted into that familiar, entitled smirk.

“I met your wife,” she announced, throwing herself onto the visitor’s chair. “And of course, I hated her.”

I didn’t look up from my papers. “You didn’t have to pretend.”

“Oh, I didn’t,” she said, leaning forward, red nails tapping the desk. “She looks… fragile. Clueless. So out of place. I don't understand why you married that.”

I closed the folder slowly. “Because it’s none of your business.”

She stood, stepped around the desk, and before I could tell her to stop, she pressed her palms on my shoulders and bent down—trying to kiss me like she used to.

“Nicholaus… I miss you,” she whispered. “Don’t push me away. I can give you what she can’t. You know that.”

I grabbed her wrist, hard enough to make her gasp. “Alena. Don’t.”

Her eyes watered—not from emotion but from pride being hit. “Why? Because of her?” she spat.

“I broke up with you because you were boring,” I said plainly. “You wanted to settle. You wanted to claim me. I never wanted you.”

Her lips trembled. “You didn’t mean that.”

“I f****d you,” I said coldly. “That’s all. Don’t confuse s*x with significance.”

She slapped me—weakly—and I didn’t even flinch.

“Get out of my office,” I said, turning back to my files as if she weren’t still standing there falling apart.

“You’ll regret choosing her,” she hissed.

“I don’t regret a damn thing.”

Alena stormed out, the door slamming behind her.

I didn’t watch her leave.

I didn’t have to.

She had already been gone the moment I got bored of her.

***

Anya POV – Vlatislov Estate, Kitchen of Hell

After surviving that nonstop shopping spree with my overly cheerful mother-in-law, she dragged me into the kitchen like I was about to take a final exam in Hell.

“We will cook solyanka,” she announced proudly. “It is Nicholaus’ favorite.”

Of course it is.

Of course.

My soul left my body the moment she said his name. Again.

I stared at the mountain of ingredients on the counter. Meat. More meat. Pickles. Lemon. Olives. Things that stared back at me spiritually.

“I already did this three times,” I muttered, chopping something that was probably not supposed to be chopped that way. “Why does it keep tasting like… depression?”

She laughed. Laughed.

Like burning food was comedy.

“Because you must cook with feelings, dear.”

“I HAVE FEELINGS!” I snapped. “They just taste bad!”

She giggled harder. “Nicholaus will eat anything you make. He is very loyal.”

I froze mid-stir.

Loyal???

Nicholaus???

Mr. Hundreds-of-Exes???

“Are we talking about the same man?” I asked carefully.

She waved me off. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. He loved solyanka even when I cooked terribly.”

I sighed, tasting the broth… and immediately regretting being alive.

“It tastes like… boiled sadness.”

“And dead hopes.”

“And taxes,” I added.

My mother-in-law patted my back like I was a child failing kindergarten.

“Try again, dear.”

“AGAIN?!”

I looked at the pot like it personally betrayed me.

“I swear, I’m gonna start serving him bread and air.”

She burst out laughing.

“Oh Anya, you are adorable. Don’t worry — once you get pregnant, your cooking improves!”

I choked on my own breath.

“WH— PREG— WHAT— EXCUSE ME?!”

She just smiled like she didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb.

“Now add the lemon slices, darling.”

Meanwhile, the soup kept boiling like it was mocking me.

This was it.

I wasn’t in Russia.

I wasn’t in my in-laws’ estate.

I was in the Kitchen of Hell.

And solyanka was my demon.