REVENGE AGAINST THE RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE

Isabelle POV

For the ninth time, I glanced at my wristwatch. It was 4:15 p.m. and the man isn't here.

I shifted on the couch, adjusting my white blazer. The nervous anticipation had turned into a restless unease.

"Where is he? We were supposed to meet at four," I muttered to Amara, my editor and assistant.

"I know, right? With all his assistants, you'd think he'd be on time," Amara replied.

"He's a billionaire, Amara. Time is probably just another commodity to him," I sighed.

I was here to interview Nikolai Ivanov, the young Russian billionaire. His secretary assured us he'd be back soon, but it was already fifteen minutes past four.

"Maybe he's stuck in traffic or dodging paparazzi," Amara suggested.

"Let's hope so," I said, rubbing my palms nervously. "He's not exactly keen on media attention."

"This interview will be the cherry on top of your blogging success," Amara exclaimed, beaming at me. "You've worked hard for this."

"Thanks," I replied, giving her a quick hug. "If I can get him to spill about that royal drama, the book practically sells itself."

"You've got the charm to get him talking," Amara said with a grin. "Can you believe those princesses fighting over him? He's like a Greek god."

We both chuckled.

"Let's hope this interview seals the deal with The Dreamers for more book deals," I said, crossing my fingers.

"You've got this; I believe in you," Amara said, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. "Your followers will be thrilled when you score this interview with Nikolai."

"Yeah," I nodded. "I owe everything to them. Without their support, Isabelle Blog wouldn't be where it is today."

"They love your honesty and passion," Amara added.

"Thanks, bestie."

"You know I'm your biggest fan," she said, her eyes welling up with tears.

We hugged tightly.

I started blogging as a hobby, but it turned into something beyond my wildest dreams. Six months ago, Isabelle Blog went viral, and now I have millions of followers. Partnering with top brands and landing amazing projects—it's been surreal. I'm filled with joy knowing I'm doing what I love and connecting with so many people.

So when my followers flooded the comments begging for an interview with Nikolai Ivanov, I knew I had to make it happen.

As we waited, Amara checked her watch. "Let's go over some facts about Nikolai while we're here."

"Good idea," I agreed, glancing around the room. I'd spent hours researching Nikolai's life. "He's quite the success story. Born into wealth and power, he's made quite a name for himself."

"Absolutely," Amara nodded.

"He studied engineering at Harvard," I continued.

Amara gave me a thumbs up.

"His family's business empire spans across multiple industries: robotics, mining, real estate, airlines, you name it," I listed off.

"Seems like he's got it all," Amara remarked.

"True, but he's never had much privacy," I added. "With a mother like Katherine Pallis Ivanov, known as the Rebellious Bride, it's no wonder." She walked down the aisle in a black dress on her wedding.

Amara raised her eyebrows.

Nikolai's life had its share of drama, like the time he accidentally set their mansion on fire as a kid, making headlines for months. Since then, the media tracked his every move, from extreme sports to his recent playboy antics.

Despite it all, I had somehow landed an interview with him and the promise of a book deal. It was hard to believe my efforts were finally paying off.

After an hour of waiting, Austin returned looking apologetic.

"Mr. Ivanov won't be able to make it today, ladies. There's been an emergency," he explained.

"Oh no," I exclaimed. "What's going on?"

"He wants to talk to you directly," Austin said, handing me the phone.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ivanov. This is Isabelle Martins," I said, trying to sound professional.

"I'm really sorry, Miss Martins," Nikolai's voice came through, sending a flutter through my stomach. "I was looking forward to our interview, but I'm dealing with an emergency right now."

"Oh, that's unfortunate..."

"It is," he chuckled softly. "My friend from Russia just arrived, and, well, we're catching up."

I couldn't help but wonder about their relationship.

"Is your friend a woman?" I asked cautiously.

"Yes, she is," he confirmed. "I explained about our interview, but she's feeling emotional and won't let go. I hate to do this, but I have to postpone. Is that okay with you, Miss Martins?"

"I hate to inconvenience you, Mr. Ivanov, but I have deadlines to meet," I explained. "Could we possibly do the interview over the phone? I can make it shorter if needed."

"I'm sorry, Miss Martins. I'm dealing with a pressing matter right now. My friend needs me," he replied.

Disappointed, I sighed.

"Of course, I understand," I said, trying to mask my disappointment with a chuckle. "It's admirable that you prioritize your friendships, Mr. Ivanov. It's a quality many women appreciate in a man."

"Thank you, Miss Martins. I appreciate your understanding."

"So, when can we reschedule?"

"How about tomorrow morning? I'll make it up to you by meeting you at the Elite Golf Course," he suggested.

"That works for me."

"You're very understanding. See you tomorrow at nine," he confirmed.

"On the dot," I echoed, smiling.

As long as Nikolai Ivanov kept our interview on his agenda, I was willing to meet him wherever he wanted.

The next day, Amara and I wore our cute golf outfits—sporty polo shirts, white skirts with matching golf shoes, and caps. I was armed with my notebook of questions, but yet again, there was no sign of Nikolai Ivanov.

This time, it was Austin Thompson again who arrived holding his phone.

"I'm so sorry, ladies," he said with the same apologetic tone. "Mr. Ivanov can't make it again today."4

"Why?" My eyebrows snapped together. Surely he wouldn't stand me up again? "What happened?"

"Unfortunately, he had another emergency."

"Another?" Amara's eyes grew big. "Unbelievable."

"Here." Austin gave me his phone. "He'll explain it to you."

"Hello. This is Isabelle Martins," I said, my tone much less kind than yesterday.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Martins, but I'm in the middle of an emergency again," Nikolai said in his usual sexy voice. It did not affect me today.

"Are you entertaining your Russian friend again, Mr. Ivanov?"

"No... not anymore," he chuckled. "She left this morning back to Russia. Actually, my other friend from Germany arrived, and the same thing happened. She won't let me go and wants me to stay in bed with her."

"Why? Is she sick?"

"You're right." He clicked his tongue. "She's so hot...feverish. She can't stop moaning in pain."

I heard a smacking sound in the background and loud moaning.

"In pain? You need to call 911. Or should I call them for you, Mr. Ivanov?"

"No need, Miss Martins. But thank you for your concern. I'm deeply touched." His voice sounded grateful, but I had a feeling he was faking it. "If you don't mind, can we reschedule the interview for this evening? Perhaps in a fine dining restaurant at eight?"

Again? He stood me up twice already.

"That's impossible, Mr. Ivanov. I'm so busy. I'll have to check my schedule first."

"Okay, some other time then," he answered firmly. "I also have very little time. I'm a busy man, and I don't think I could grant you another interview in the future. So this is goodbye, Miss Martins—"

"Wait," I stopped him from hanging up.

I was torn about agreeing to dinner. Normally, I'd never give someone a third chance. But Nikolai was different. I had a multi-book deal and my publishing dreams on the line. Should I bend my rules for him?

I took a deep breath to calm myself. "Okay. I'll see you tonight, Mr. Ivanov."

He chuckled, sounding victorious. "You're very kind, Miss Martins. Until dinner, then."

He hung up, leaving me frozen with my hands balled into fists. I turned to Amara, keeping my voice low enough that Austin couldn't hear.

"If Nikolai Ivanov stands me up again at dinner tonight, I'm going to make him pay."