Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Mikhail Dokovic comes from a long lineage of politically influential men. Because of his birth order, he was supposed to be at the top of his family’s dynasty, but when our worlds collided in my family’s pub, it felt far from the truth.
Years of physical and mental abuse weighed heavily on his shoulders. Yet, he still had that irresistible charm that left every woman within a five-mile radius desperate for fresh panties.
Myself included.
I fell under his spell in an instant, and we shared three magical years together.
It was perfect… until it wasn’t.
Despite Mikhail’s vow that it was me or no one, his family branded me as “unworthy,” and soon after, our relationship came crashing down.
He left me at the altar, so I have no idea why the man who shattered our relationship ten years ago is now insisting we marry under the promise of a hefty inheritance.
I would ask questions, but a woman with no money to her name and a gravely ill mother doesn’t have the luxury of time. I must marry the man I’m beginning to hate or bury my mother. Those are my only choices.
Mikhail
I attended my grandfather’s will reading purely out of curiosity. I didn’t anticipate being awarded a majority share of his wealth. He had hated me from the day I was born, and his disdain was evident throughout my life until his passing.
To say I was shocked when awarded five hundred million dollars is an understatement. I was flabbergasted. However, that shock paled compared to the surprise that followed when I learned the conditions of my inheritance.
I was to marry my grandfather’s preferred choice by the end of the week, and she now despises me as much as my grandfather once did.
Emerson Morozov is the only woman I’ve ever loved. She was the ember that brought me back to life and made me believe my life was worth living.
But since she is also the woman who left me at the altar ten years ago, I knew we wouldn't survive my grandfather’s strict terms.
I tried to walk away. I am successful in my own right and, as such, don’t need my grandfather’s dirty money. But when I discovered I wouldn’t be the only one benefiting from his unexpected generosity, I had a change of heart.
Emerson’s mother is sick, and although heaven has no rage like a love turned to hatred, when the woman you promised to love to the end of eternity needs your help, you side with the devil to achieve the seemingly impossible—even one six feet under
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Playlist
Half a Heart - One Direction
I Hate That It’s True - Dean Lewis
Someone To You - Matt Hansen
If You Love Her - Forest Black
28 - Ruth B. & Dean Lewis
Before You - Benson Boone
Chapter 1
Emerson
Funerals suck. They’re stuffy, lifeless—obviously—and bring out everyone from your kindergarten teacher to your second cousin’s third wife. I loathe them. But I loathe this more.
Readings of wills are where crocodile tears fade, pushed aside for money-hungry viciousness.
A lawyer’s conference room two hundred miles from my hometown holds as many people as the front rows of last month’s nationally broadcast funeral.
I’m not surprised. Andrik Dokovic Sr. was an extremely wealthy man. The combined sum in his multiple bank accounts could keep the heat on for every family in Russia for centuries to come. He was the epitome of success.
He needed to be for anyone to see past his icy-cold demeanor.
If you can’t tell, I’m not a fan of Andrik Sr. We clashed many times during the period I “associated” with a member of his family, and even with our bone-crushing love only being displayed to him as puppy love, he never let his disdain for my inclusion in his grandson’s life go unnoticed.
That’s why I’m apprehensive to learn why Andrik Sr. named me in his will.
It was probably a last-minute amendment before he croaked to remind me of my place.
“Your name doesn’t belong alongside a Dokovic,” were the last words Andrik Sr. spoke to me before he slid into the back of a chauffeur-driven government-plated car, taking my heart with him.
He uttered his scorn over a decade ago, but it still stings like a million wasp bites.
The hateful words of an angry, lonely man with nothing but money to snuggle with at night are easy to forget. But first love—the gooey, sticky kind that adheres to every damn surface of your mind, body, and soul—stays with you for a lifetime.
It also reminds you that hate isn’t a genuine emotion. It’s a façade designed to blanket your feelings in a manner appropriate for public consumption, and the only thing they give you free rein to cling to when things turn sour.
It is expected.
This, though, walking into a room that smells like old books and even older money, isn’t close to the norm.
Andrik Sr. was right. I don’t belong here.
If I had any other option, I wouldn’t be here.
Alas, beggars can’t be picky.
As my baby sister would say, you get what you get, and you don’t get upset.
After wrangling through suit-clad gents and elegantly dressed ladies, I find a spot at the end of a long mahogany conference table. I hide behind a handful of attendees mingling close enough to conceal my why-the-hell-am-I-here face.
The air is thick with anticipation and another scent I can’t quite work out. It is a little rancid, like everyone feels like they also don’t belong here, so they’re sweating as much as I am.
The thought eases my nerves a smidge, bringing them down to a manageable level.
While breathing through my nose, hoping the overspray of pricy aftershaves filling the space doesn’t tickle the back of my throat, I scan the faces surrounding me. I have allergies—badly. One wrong sniff and I’ll sneeze loud enough to erupt Klyuchevskaya Sopka.
If I want to remain hidden, I can’t activate a volcano.
My sighting of a familiar face partway through my scan makes my quest seem almost impossible. I see Mikhail, the source of the sticky, gooey mess I mentioned earlier, seated at the opposite end of the conference room. Like his designer-clad counterparts slapping his back like he won the lottery, he’s wearing a tailored suit and a fancy, show-every-inch-of-my-muscular-torso button-up shirt. He’s not wearing their hideously pompous ties and has a few buttons undone, showing more skin.
He’s older than the memories that broadcast like a high-budget movie anytime my heart rebels against my head by taking a trip down memory lane, but he still has that fuckboy eat-your-heart-out look that has every woman in a five-mile radius desperate for a fresh pair of panties.
Myself included.
He’s the hottest guy in the room, and he knows it. Regretfully.
My eye roll in defiance of his cocky confidence glitches halfway around. The very essence of Mikhail’s now type has entered the room, and I’m not the only one eyeballing her arrival. Mikhail waves her over with an eagerness I haven’t seen cross his face in over a decade—and I’ve read every tabloid article printed about him in the past ten years.
He seemed happy, but not like this. This is above glee. He looks complete. Whole. Not close to the miserable, sad person I’ve become.
The mysterious woman is blonde, short, and gorgeous. And she has a noticeable yet still tiny baby bump that Mikhail caresses when she joins him in the premium seats.
What the?
My breath hitches in my throat as anger overtakes my curiosity. Mikhail was expected to be here and to interact with a woman with more class in her pinky finger than I have in my entire body. It is, after all, his grandfather’s will reading. But this—a baby—is a slap in the face I’m struggling to ignore.