19. Emma
Emma
As soon as I set foot in the studio, it’s chaos. This is the last place I want to be.
Assistants hurry across polished concrete floors, carrying garment bags and steaming cups of coffee while makeup artists orbit around models beneath harsh white lighting.
Cameras flash every few seconds. Music pulses softly through hidden speakers, something electronic and expensive sounding.
It lights anxiety on fire under my skin.
And somehow, in the center of all of it, Ruslan looks perfectly calm.
He stands near the main set while someone adjusts the sleeve of his dark wool coat, one hand shoved casually into his pocket. Today’s shoot is apparently for some major fashion magazine doing a feature on “visionaries shaping luxury fashion,” which sounds pretentious enough to suit him perfectly.
The irritating part is that he actually deserves it. Lord I assumed. You two look so dangerously in love.”
My stomach twists.
Because somehow, despite everything wrong with this situation, part of me understands exactly why people would believe it.
* * *
A makeup artist dabs more shimmer along my collarbone while the photographer reviews shots on a nearby monitor. Across the studio, assistants rearrange lighting equipment around a velvet chaise lounge someone apparently decided looks “editorial.”
Fashion people are insane.
I catch sight of a magazine sitting abandoned near one of the mirrors and immediately regret it. The tabloid headline splashed across the front practically screams at me.
SMIRNOV brOTHERS brAWL AT UPSCALE DENVER RESTAURANT.
There’s a blurry photo beneath it of Ruslan shoving forward while security grabs his arms, blood visible near his mouth. Andrei looks equally vicious in the picture, tie half undone, expression twisted with rage.
It doesn’t look like a politician and businessman; it looks primal.
“Emma.”
I glance up. Rus stands a few feet away already watching me, his expression unreadable the second he notices the magazine in my hands.
I set it down immediately. “I wasn’t snooping.”
“You were reading public news. That’s hardly snooping.”
He walks toward me slowly, dark coat hanging open now between wardrobe changes. The bruising near his jaw has mostly faded, but even now, covered with makeup, I notice it.
And suddenly I want details. Not the headlines—the truth.
“What happened?” I ask quietly once he stops beside me.
His gaze shifts toward the magazine briefly before returning to me. “Nothing unexpected.”
“Rus.”
“We argued.”
“That looked like more than arguing.”
A muscle moves again in his jaw. It must be a nervous tic. Meaning I’ve hit a nerve. Or a wall.
Ever since the fight, he’s kept part of himself carefully sealed off from me. Still attentive, still possessive. But emotionally distant in a way that makes me feel strangely off balance. It shouldn’t upset me, because I’ve been the one creating that distance. Until now.
Now, it feels like I’m standing too close to a cliff edge without realizing it.
“What did Andrei say to you?” I press softly.
“Enough.”
The finality in his voice stings more than it should.
Before I can respond, the photographer claps excitedly from across the set. “Perfect timing. I want the tension exactly like this.”
Wonderful.
We’re repositioned near the chaise lounge beneath softer lighting while stylists fuss with our clothes again.
Someone darkens my lipstick. Someone else rolls up Ruslan’s sleeves slightly, exposing strong forearms and the expensive watch at his wrist. I try to ignore the way my mouth waters at the sight of the muscles and tendons there flexing.
The photographer circles us like a predator scenting blood.
“Closer,” he says immediately.
Rus’s hand settles against my thigh this time. Heat flashes through me so fast it’s embarrassing.
“Excellent,” the photographer murmurs. “Now look at her like you’re obsessed with her.”
Ruslan goes completely still beside me. Then his eyes lift to mine.
The air changes instantly.
I actually forget the cameras exist for a second.
“Jesus Christ,” someone whispers near the monitors.
The photographer practically vibrates with excitement. “That. Hold that.”
Camera flashes erupt rapidly now while my pulse stumbles somewhere behind my ribs. Rus remains frustratingly unreadable outwardly, but I can feel tension coiled beneath his composure through every point where our bodies touch.
The spark between us never really disappeared. It just buried itself beneath anger and suspicion.
“Okay,” the photographer says suddenly. “New setup.”
Five minutes later, I’m trying not to combust from embarrassment.
Ruslan kneels in front of me beside the velvet chaise while one of his hands rests against the back of my thigh.
The pose itself isn’t even explicit, but there is something about seeing him like this.
Large, elegant, dangerous Ruslan Smirnov on his knees looking up at me—makes my entire body overheat instantly.
The photographer notices too. “Oh, this is filthy,” he says delightedly.
I make a strangled noise.
Rus’s mouth twitches faintly. Smug bastard.
“Emma,” the photographer calls, “touch his face.”
I hesitate for half a second before sliding my fingers carefully along Ruslan’s jaw. His eyes darken immediately at the contact. And despite the distance he’s been forcing between us for days, I feel the shift in him all at once. Hunger. Possession. Something deeper he keeps trying not to show me.
The cameras flash harder. Around us, the studio fills with the sounds of murmurs and rustles because everyone can see it.
Whatever this is between us may have started out as fake, but the tension absolutely isn’t.