Ruslan
The realization that I shouldn’t bring Emma here hits me halfway across the courtyard as she follows beside me.
She’s back in her own clothes, retrieved by one of Stepan’s men and laundered by Mrs. Alvarez.
After being woken by Kate this morning, I figured the least I could give her was some privacy and a shower; a small break to consider that maybe… I’m not the monster she thinks I am.
But you are, the dark voice in my head whispers. And you’re about to prove it.
The small studio cottage tucked behind the main house is the one place on this property that actually belongs to me. Not Russ Smith—me.
No staff allowed unless invited. No business associates unless necessary. No women. No meaningless distractions. Just silence, work, and the illusion that I still possess some level of control over my life.
And yet, here she is.
Emma glances toward me as I unlock the door. “This is your office?”
“Mm.”
“It looks less murder-y than I expected.”
A laugh threatens unexpectedly in my chest. Brazen woman. I wasn’t expecting her to be this strange mix of sarcastic and distrusting, hidden by the insecurity I first noted when I saw her in my store.
I push the door open and motion for her to enter first. The cottage smells faintly of cedar and espresso, sunlight spilling through massive windows overlooking the cliffs beyond the property.
The space is masculine, but cleanly elegant—dark leather, bookshelves, polished concrete floors softened by antique rugs.
Emma steps inside slowly. Then stops.
I know the exact moment she notices this place is personal.
Her eyes move over the shelves near the fireplace first. Framed photographs and old records, a hobby of mine that no one but Frank knows much about. A chess set, my father taught me to use before he died, worn along the edges. Russian novels stacked beside fashion portfolios and financial reports.
Too much of me exposed at once. Anxiety tightens unpleasantly beneath my ribs.
Emma walks toward the bookshelf slowly, drawn despite herself. “You read Dostoevsky?”
“I am Russian, Emma. It is practically a legal requirement.”
Her lips twitch faintly. Then she notices the framed photo beside the books.
Kate, at perhaps eight years old, sitting on my shoulders during some festival downtown. I remember that day vividly because she laughed so hard that she lost one of her shoes. And it was… so soon after I found her. When I worried she’d never laugh again.
But I don’t say any of this out loud.
Still, Emma’s expression softens slightly, which only makes the anxiety in my chest ramp up. Letting someone see this feels dangerous. As if I have a death wish.
I move past her toward the espresso machine along the far counter before she can look too closely at anything else. “Sit.”
“That sounded hostile.”
“It was an instruction. I’m used to people obeying me.”
She mutters something under her breath that absolutely sounds suspiciously like “asshole” before dropping onto the leather sofa, anyway.
I pour espresso into two cups, mostly to occupy my hands. Emma keeps glancing around the room with obvious curiosity, attention lingering on details I stopped noticing years ago.
The records. The coat thrown carelessly over the chair by my desk.
She’s observing me. There it is again; that certainty that she is more than she’s showing me.
Most women notice wealth first around men like me. Emma notices humanity. The thought settles unexpectedly heavily in my chest, and I immediately redirect it. I brought her here for one reason only, and it was not to be seen.
“Business,” I say sharply, setting her cup down in front of her.
Her eyes narrow slightly at my tone. “There’s that terrifying personality again.”
“Focus.” Am I directing that to the beautiful young woman in front of me, or myself?
Emma leans back against the couch cautiously. “Okay. Fine. What exactly is this proposition?”
I sit across from her, studying her face for one long moment. Then I decide to enjoy this.
“I want you to accompany me to Colorado.”
“What?”
“To my brother’s engagement party,” I continue calmly. “And the wedding afterward.”
The color drains from her face in real time. I almost smile.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I am entirely serious.”
Emma actually laughs, but it sounds slightly unhinged. “Absolutely not. No, that is psychotic. And I don’t live there anymore.”
Interesting choice of words, considering the circumstances.
“You were involved with Andrei publicly before,” I point out. “You understand political events.”
“That is not the issue! And…” She makes a choked sound, a flush creeping up her neck. My eyes dip lower; I’m tempted to follow it to where it must surely color her chest, the same way the chocolate did that night I licked it off her.
She rises abruptly from the couch and starts pacing the small office, visibly horrified now. “You want me to walk into his engagement party with his older brother? Are you insane? Do you people not believe in therapy?”
I watch her calmly over the rim of my cup. God, she is beautiful when agitated. Her curls bounce with every sharp movement while outrage flushes warmth back into her cheeks.
Andrei discarded this woman.
Idiot.
My jaw tightens as I picture the blonde fiancée from television again. All polished angles and smiles. A nice enough woman, surely, but who agrees to marry my brother after only three months? Not someone looking for love.
Which makes me feel even more secure in my decision to use this to bring Andrei down.
Meanwhile, Emma looks alive as she crosses her arms and continues pacing. Soft in the places a woman should be soft. Sharp where it matters. Intelligent eyes. Real reactions. Real fire.
Andrei truly is stupid.
She finally stops to stare at me incredulously. “Why would you even want to do this?”
Because I want to watch my brother realize exactly what he lost.
Because I want to destroy the carefully controlled image he built for himself once he ousted me from my home.
Because vengeance tastes sweeter when delivered elegantly.
But most dangerously, because I cannot stop imagining Emma standing beside me while every powerful man in Colorado understands she belongs to me now instead.
I set my coffee down carefully.
Then smile.
“That,” I murmur softly, “isn’t for you to worry about.”
“You do realize,” she bites out, “that your brother will immediately think you’re doing this to screw with him?”
“Yes.”
“And you are doing this to screw with him.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.” It’s muttered with a roll of her eyes. Now that she’s feeling more comfortable in my presence, whether she realizes it or not, I’m seeing more and more of this incredible woman.
Unfortunately, stubbornness flashes through her expression a second later, and I recognize the shift immediately. She is preparing to refuse again. So I change tactics.
“There would be compensation.”
She stops pacing.
Ah. Greed? Or desperation? It’s often hard to tell the two apart, but the distinction matters.
The idea that Emma might agree to this because she wants money bothers me, like a thorn settling in under my skin. But if she needs it? That makes a pulse of protective instinct flood through me.
“Compensation.”
I nod. “You would attend several public events with me in Colorado. The engagement party. The wedding. A handful of campaign-adjacent appearances likely connected to Andrei’s social circle; whatever other ridiculous things he comes up with.”
She ignores that. “And in exchange?”
I study her face carefully before answering. “One hundred thousand dollars.”
First, she looks incredulous. Then offended…then conflicted. That amount of money is nothing to me, but for many people it could be life-changing. And when I had Stepan shut down her accounts, I know exactly how much—or how little—was in them.
What are you running from? My thoughts whisper, but I don’t voice them aloud. Not yet. I need Emma to agree to this, and for that to happen, she can’t feel threatened or exposed.
Her throat moves slightly as she swallows. “You can’t just throw money at people until they cooperate.”
“You would be surprised how often that works.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She looks away immediately. She must be tempted. And she must hate herself for considering it.
Five thousand dollars in her account. Frozen cards. Missing identification.
What happened to you, Emma?
The question presses harder now, but I keep it leashed.
Not yet.
She rubs tiredly at her forehead. “This is insane.”
“Yes. But necessary.”
“You’re insane.”
“Some would argue I hide it well.”
Her lips twitch despite herself before flattening again almost immediately. “And what exactly would people think I am? Your date? Girlfriend? Escort?”
Something dark flickers pleasantly through me at the last word.
Half of my empire is built on escorts; women who choose the profession, who understand the power it can bring.
For a brief moment, a fantasy plays through my mind, of Emma in a delicious black dress, pushing me back onto a bed.
Climbing over me, a toy in hand…a devilish look in her eyes.
“My companion,” I say smoothly.
She scoffs. “Sure. You want to bring me, your brother’s ex, back to his engagement and wedding and act like I’m just a companion?
” Something flickers briefly in her eyes, a sadness that makes her turn away.
“You realize he won’t care, right? Because obviously six months with me was enough to realize I wasn’t marriage material. ”
A low growl starts in my chest, and I shut it down.
Would she have married Andrei? The thought of her at his side, binding herself to him, makes me want to break things.
“He’ll care,” I bark harshly, noticing too late that the sound makes Emma flinch. “Andrei has always been a greedy, selfish little mudak. He doesn’t like others playing with his toys, even discarded ones.”