11. Emma
Emma
Colorado stretches endlessly beyond the tinted windows of the jet in rolling gold fields and dark pine forests climbing toward distant peaks dusted faintly with early snow. The sky feels bigger here somehow. Endless.
I stare out the window as we move closer and closer toward Denver, only twenty minutes out now. Summer is ending.
I can see it everywhere; the trees have that tired look they get right before autumn swallows them whole. Some leaves are already beginning to yellow at the edges. Burnt orange flickers through clusters of aspens like the season is testing itself carefully before committing.
It makes my chest ache unexpectedly hard. Colorado used to feel like possibility, somewhere I could stay, somewhere far away from the mess of Miami.
When I first moved here, everything looked like a good place to settle down.
Which I hadn’t felt, ever. Not when my sister was perfect and several years ahead of me, achieving milestone after milestone.
In Denver, clean-cut politicians smiled on banners while the city climbed higher and richer every year.
I remember thinking I’d finally become someone important here.
Across from me, Ruslan is also restless. Although we handle it differently. I go completely still. Ruslan fidgets.
He has a quarter skating over his knuckles like a magician. Some street trick, an odd thing for a business mogul to have, especially when he’s wearing a dark purple ascot that only makes his blonde-white hair more attractive.
What is it he ran from? And why is he coming back?
I can’t reconcile him.
The man who bought Kate snacks before we left and kissed her head, a quiet word whispered in Russian, should not be the same man whose security team travels armed.
And yet.
The jet itself still feels surreal. Not first-class surreal, although there’s endless leather seating and champagne. Men in suits speaking softly into earpieces while Ruslan reviews documents worth more money than I’ll probably ever see.
I glance toward him now despite myself. He notices immediately, of course.
His pale eyes lift from the phone slowly. “You are staring again.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby.”
I ignore that. “How rich are you?”
One corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Very.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is enough of one.”
I look away before he can catch the discomfort crossing my face. The farther we get into Colorado, the harder it becomes to pretend I accidentally stumbled into this situation. Maybe that first night, but…
Ruslan isn’t just some criminal businessman. He’s something bigger, older. Whatever he does beneath the surface, and I’m still not sure I want to know, there’s a structure to it. Like he’s been doing this for a long time.
People orbit him differently. His employees don’t just respect him; they anticipate him. Fear him. Even the men traveling with us barely meet his eyes directly, except for one who stays silent, a missing canine like a black hole in his mouth.
I force my attention back toward the window.
Anything is better than dwelling on the fact that I’ve voluntarily attached myself to a criminal with a private jet and enough power to make people nervous just by walking into a room.
Unfortunately, the cabin isn’t large enough to completely ignore him. Or his business.
The man with the missing tooth, Stepan, leans forward from the seat across the aisle, speaking quietly enough that I shouldn’t be able to hear. But the jet has fallen into that strange pre-landing silence where every sound seems sharper.
“Denver numbers look cleaner than California's.”
Ruslan’s attention remains on his phone.
“They should.”
“The charity's accounts helped.”
My stomach tightens. Charity accounts?
Stepan shrugs one shoulder. “Three foundations, two youth programs. Nobody asks questions when the money passes through there.”
Ruslan finally looks up.
“And the retail side?”
“Stable. Auditors saw exactly what they were supposed to see. And Andrei still doesn’t know you own the company.”
A pause. Then Stepan smiles, revealing the missing canine again. “Everyone loves fashion.”
Money laundering. It has to be that. He’s trying to prop Lord nobody even knows I’m here. And yet every insecurity I’ve spent months trying to bury suddenly comes rushing back.
The breakup. The humiliation. The feeling that I wasn’t enough.
Not successful enough, not polished enough, not important enough. All echoes of my childhood are coming back now, in adulthood, after I failed.
My throat tightens. Across from me, Ruslan goes still. Uh oh.
He’s noticed.
His eyes narrow slightly as he studies me. “You are pale.”
“I’m fine.” A lie. A terrible one. The jet banks gently left, revealing a wider view of Denver below.
Something sharp twists behind my ribs.
Home.
Not home.
A place I thought might become home once.
“Emma.”
The sound of my name pulls me away from the window. Ruslan has set his phone aside, fully aside, and all of his attention is fixed on me. Dangerous.
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re gripping the chair hard enough to break it.”
I immediately loosen my hands, feeling the ache in my knuckles. It’s embarrassing, falling apart just from seeing a city.
His expression softens slightly. It doesn’t make him look less harmless, not now that I’ve seen the mask slip. But it makes him look real.
“Look at me.”
I shouldn’t. I do anyway.
The restless energy that followed him throughout the flight seems to have settled. For the first time since we boarded, he looks completely certain of something.
“Everything will be fine.”
I almost laugh. “What an insane thing for you to say.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “Perhaps.”
“You’ve spent the last week threatening people. Including me.”
“Only people who deserve it.”
I stare at him, a brow raised. He stares right back. The confidence in his expression should irritate me, but it actually loosens something in my chest. Just a little bit.
“I don’t think you understand,” I admit quietly. The words slip out before I can stop them. “I really didn’t want to come back here.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Is there any chance that a criminal like him can feel remorse? Guilt for dragging me back? Not that he has any idea what kind of mess my life was before my “vacation” in California. The contract we both sign keeps him from digging.
“I understand more than you think,” he says softly, and something twists his features.
I almost recognize it. It’s the kind of longing that sits heavy in my gut, the homelessness that follows everywhere I go.
But Ruslan seems so confident, so in control of this empire he built on the west coast. Why would coming back here make him feel less?
Outside, Denver grows closer. The runway appears in the distance, and my pulse speeds up again. To top all this off, I’ve never been great at flying.
Ruslan reaches across the space between us and closes his hand around mine.
The gesture catches me completely off guard. His touch is warm and steady. His thumb brushes once against my knuckles.
“I will keep you safe.”
He says it like he’s making a promise. I’ve known men like Ruslan Smirnov, even if only from afar. And the most dangerous thing about them is that they keep their promises.
For one brief, dangerous moment, I want to believe him.
The wheels drop beneath the aircraft, and the city rushes upward. Every rational instinct tells me I should be terrified of trusting a man like Ruslan, but I feel better anyway. Which may be the most frightening thing of all.
* * *
By the time we arrive at the hotel downtown, my nerves are shredded. All I want is to bleed into the late afternoon shadows, between the alleys, but Ruslan seems dead set on making it known that we’re here. The hotel is huge and luxurious. He’s chosen the Four Seasons.
The lobby is full of hanging globe lights reflecting off a wall of mirrors, against a dark caramel backdrop. It’s warm and inviting, and Ruslan strides in like he isn’t a prodigal son returning for vengeance.
A small entourage follows us. A young woman, a few years younger than me, meek but strong, leads the way with our luggage. Stepan, disappearing off to the side. I wonder if he’ll be more comfortable sleeping out on a park bench, or on a ledge of the building.
There’s no way anyone recognizes Ruslan. Not if what I’ve gleaned (that he hasn’t been to Colorado for a decade) is true. But people naturally defer to him; it’s noticeable.
A manager escorts us toward the elevators while explaining the spa, the pool, and the dining arrangements we can make. Security spreads subtly around the lobby without appearing obvious about it; three men peeling off from Stepan’s watchful eye.
I hate that I really do feel safe, even though I’ve been practically dragged here against my will. Hunted down.
In the elevator, silence stretches tautly between us. Finally, I say quietly, “Money laundering.”
His eyes lift slowly. There’s no point pretending I didn’t overhear. “Yes.”
The directness catches me off guard anyway.
“You just openly admit criminal activity now?”
“You already know I’m a criminal. You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who will make the mistake of giving me up to the government, Emma.”
He has no idea.
The elevator doors slide open onto the 44th floor. Only three doors line the hallway. Ruslan pulls two cards from his pocket and hands me one. I half-turn away from him as he flashes his to the door marked 442, and my eyes drop to mine.
442.
Wait—
“Am I?”
But Ruslan’s already disappeared inside. Hesitating, I follow, then stand dumbfounded in the foyer. There’s a foyer. For a hotel room.
I should’ve known better. It’s not quite a penthouse, but not a suite, either.
Larger, longer. Running a third of the length of the floor, an open floor plan centered around slate-gray and natural stone.
There’s a fireplace, a kitchen tucked off the living area that’s a miniature of the one in Ruslan’s house.
I stand stock-still as the assistants file in behind me, slipping off to find the bedrooms and unpack.
“No.”
Ruslan glances back at me calmly. “No?”
“We are not sharing a suite.”
“We are.”
“Absolutely not.”
His expression shifts slightly. Amusement. Annoying man.
“I require proximity during public appearances,” he says smoothly. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re here only for leverage, Emma. Or as anything other than my lover.”
That word should sound ridiculous coming from his mouth, but he practically purrs it. His eyes drop down to the lapels of my jacket, and I remember the chocolate, how greedy he was, his hands under my ass.
No. I can’t be this close to him.
I glare at him. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“This is ridiculous!”
“Emma.”
“No, actually, I’m pretty sure normal fake-dating arrangements include separate bedrooms—”
Ruslan suddenly crosses the distance between us. Fast enough that my breath catches.
His hand closes around the back of my neck before I fully process the movement, and then his mouth crashes against mine hard enough to erase coherent thought entirely.
God.
The kiss doesn’t feel like seduction, but possession. Sharp heat and restrained aggression underneath it all. My body melts traitorously anyway.
I hate myself.
Ruslan pulls back just enough for me to breathe, forehead resting briefly against mine while his fingers tighten slightly against my neck.
“Play the doting girlfriend,” he growls softly.
The command sends a pulse of heat straight through me, despite the alarm bells screaming in my head. There are other people in the suite with us. What if they come out and see?
But a part of me doesn’t care. A part of me wants to find that bedroom and let him kiss me like that again.
Dangerous. Everything about this is dangerous.
I swallow hard, trying to recover enough dignity to glare at him properly.
“You have no idea who you’re messing with,” I whisper back.
For one brief second, silence hangs between us. Then Ruslan smirks.
He turns and leaves me there, staring first to my left and then to my right. The suite must be close to 3,000 square feet. A chain of rooms with tucked-away corners for privacy.
Where he might find me.
Back me into a corner—
No.
This has to stop now. I take a deep breath, dead set on the goal: play Ruslan Smirnov’s girlfriend for the month. Watch him destroy Andrei however he sees fit. Collect my money.
Run.
Nothing more; there can’t be anything more.