23. Emma
Emma
Sunlight still clings stubbornly to summer even though the shadows carry a noticeable chill.
I trail behind one of Ruslan’s assistants through an upscale outdoor shopping district, trying not to feel ridiculous about the fact that this woman was apparently flown in from California specifically because I needed “better evening shoes.” Judging by the families we pass with small children already bundled up in heavy jackets, I might be better off with winter boots.
Her name is Nadya, and she is terrifyingly efficient.
“You fidget when you’re nervous,” she informs me while scanning a rack of silk blouses tucked inside a boutique’s foyer. “People notice.”
“I wasn’t aware I was under professional review.”
“You are with Mr. Smirnov. Everything is under review.”
That’s comforting. Trying to school my face into something neutral, I flex my hands and force myself to keep them at my sides. And try to look relaxed.
The promenade is crowded. Ever since the fashion shoot, I’ve become hyperaware of how public this entire disaster has become. Rus and Andrei fighting made the tabloids. The wedding coverage is escalating daily. At this point, I half expect TMZ to burst out from behind a potted plant.
The thought barely finishes before my stomach drops.
Oh no.
Twenty feet away, emerging from a jewelry boutique with two women trailing behind her, is Victoria.
Andrei’s fiancée looks polished in a way I used to envy.
She’s wearing a cream sweater, her hair somehow managing to look sleek but not greasy.
The massive engagement ring catches sunlight every time she moves her hand.
She belongs perfectly in Colorado society; the kind of woman photographed beside smiling senators and charity boards.
If she sees me…
My heart rockets immediately as I glance around for photographers.
There are enough wealthy people here that paparazzi lingering nearby wouldn’t exactly be shocking.
The last thing I need is photographs of me “cornering” or “confronting” Andrei Smirnov’s fiancée in the middle of a shopping district.
I turn slightly, intending to disappear into the nearest store and ditch Nadya if I have to.
Then Victoria looks up.
Our eyes meet.
Recognition flashes across her face, followed by… fear?
It can’t be fear of me. She doesn’t even know me. And the way she glances around, but keeps moving in my direction, barely slowing, makes me realize that this fear is generalized.
Victoria says something quietly to the women beside her before walking toward me alone. Nadya notices, and her eyes darken, hand going to her bag in such a practiced way that there’s a good chance she’s not just an assistant.
Up close, Victoria looks more tired than she does on television. Her makeup is flawless, but not flawless enough to fully hide the faint discoloration near her collarbone.
Bruises.
My chest tightens unexpectedly, wrist aching at the memory.
There’s no way those bruises are accidental. I remember long nights with Andrei where his hands gripped too tightly once the bedroom door closed and the polished politician mask slipped away. Back then, I convinced myself passion explained everything.
Now that I’m on his bad side, I know better. There’s a hidden violence in that man. And apparently, Victoria is on the receiving end.
Nadya notices the shift in my expression immediately and subtly steps back, giving us privacy while still remaining close enough to intervene if needed. She slips a cell phone into her palm, tapping away quickly.
Victoria stops in front of me. “Emma.” Her lips lift in a smile, but as with the old cliché, it doesn’t reach her eyes. Not really.
Hearing my name from her feels surreal.
“Hi,” I manage carefully.
For a second, neither of us speak. The noise of the shopping district seems strangely distant while we stand there studying one another, half-tucked into an alley to get out of foot traffic. She’s prettier than I expected up close, but there’s something brittle underneath it. Something strained.
Then her gaze flicks briefly over me, and I know that she’s looking for bruises on me, too. As if Rus—
He would never.
“Your scarf,” I murmur, moving my hand toward my collarbone. Her eyes widen as she clutches the light scarf, readjusting it.
Victoria notices my expression and looks away, embarrassment flashing across her face. “I didn’t realize anyone would see. I thought I’d covered it.”
The quiet shame in her voice makes my heart twist.
“It’s not your fault,” I say automatically.
A humorless little laugh escapes her. “That sounds practiced.”
Because it is. Because women say these things to each other all the time when men hurt us.
Victoria hesitates before speaking again. “Can I ask you something?”
Every instinct tells me this conversation is dangerous. We’re standing in the middle of a public shopping district discussing one of Colorado’s rising political stars like he’s a monster lurking behind closed doors.
Which he is.
Still, I nod slowly.
She lowers her voice. “What was he like with you?”
The question sits heavily between us. Not because I don’t know how to answer, but because I suddenly realize she’s asking out of hope more than curiosity. Hope that maybe she imagined it. Hope that maybe she somehow caused it and can stop it from happening again.
I know that feeling, too.
I glance around once more before answering carefully. “At first? Charming. Really intense, but charming.”
Victoria swallows. Across the street, the two women who were with her are watching us closely. Any minute now, someone will notice us and snap a picture.
“And later?”
I hesitate. Because despite everything, some stubborn part of me still feels guilty speaking openly about Andrei. Maybe because I once loved him, or thought I did. Maybe because admitting the truth means admitting what I tolerated for too long and just managed to escape.
Finally, quietly, I say, “Later, I spent a lot of time convincing myself his anger meant he cared. And that the…bruises…were just passion.”
Victoria’s face pales slightly. For several long seconds, neither of us speaks. Then she exhales shakily and folds her arms around herself despite the warmth lingering in the afternoon air.
“He gets so angry sometimes,” she whispers.
I nod and keep my mouth shut. Because if I open it, I’m afraid I’ll step forward, grab her wrist, and tell her to leave. Warn her that with men like Andrei, it’ll only get worse. I know that now. I was blinded to it then.
When Nadya signals to me that we need to get moving, I half-turn away. Then it’s Victoria’s hand on my forearm, her slim fingers freezing me in place.
“Is his brother? Are they very similar?”
I know what she’s asking. And I know that she was looking for bruises on me only minutes ago.
“No,” I answer honestly, surprised by the surge of defensiveness and pride I feel at the mention of Rus. “No, he’s…protective, but in the way that…I think he would behead anyone who tried to touch me the wrong way.”
Victoria laughs, the sound brittle. “That’s good,” she says, and it feels like she means it, even though sadness settles in her smile. “You two seem very happy together. I was hoping that was true.”
She gives a small shrug, stepping back and into the crowd. In seconds she’s swept up by the shoppers and tourists, her back straight and eyes ahead as her friends hurry across the street.
Nadya is at my side immediately.
“Ready?” she asks. There’s an edge to her voice that makes it clear she isn’t happy with the interaction.
I glance down at her now-empty hands. “Did you tell him?”
She nods, not bothering to lie to me.
So even if society didn’t recognize the meeting of minds that just took place, Ruslan will know. As we move toward the next shop, I can’t help wondering how he’ll feel about that.
Jealous? Angry?
If I tell him what Andrei does to her, will that make the outcome worse?
The fact that it probably will doesn’t scare me like it should. It only makes me feel a stronger pull toward the man I’m slowly starting to see less as a monster and more like an avenger.