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)
She didn’t rebel. She submitted, and it has me the most confused I’ve ever been.
As we approach Zelenolsk, I remember a plan I made before I drank any caffeine. People are bustling around the manicured lawns and numerous sitting rooms, setting up equipment and arranging props.
Accepting a five-figure deal for a photo shoot with a world-renowned gossip magazine seems senseless when my establishments profit more than that per hour, but I knew it was the only way I could help Emerson without risking losing her for another ten years.
Her share will allow her to contribute to the funds her mother is seeking, but it will keep her at my side hopefully long enough to get some answers.
I park my bike at the side entrance of Zelenolsk Manor before assisting Emerson off. Crinkled brows and twisted lips show her confusion, and it makes me smile.
It is about time I handed her the confused baton.
I relish her bewilderment for a few seconds before attempting to ease it. “I thought a photo shoot would be a good way to announce our nuptials.”
“Oh.” Emerson nods, agreeing with my concept, but her eyes betray her nonchalant reply. I learn why when she twists to face me. “I didn’t tell my family about this.” Her hand flaps between us during the “this” part of her reply. “I made out I came here to endorse some business documents. That’s why I deleted the images of us off the teen’s phone. Our agreement shouldn’t be revealed to my family by the media. I want to tell them myself.”
With furrowed brows, I stare at her. I’d wondered what she had told her family about our agreement. Now I have my answer.
Although it hurts to acknowledge she told them our marriage contract is nothing more than a business transaction, I prefer it over believing she deleted the images from the teen’s phone because she didn’t want to be photographed with me.
Our relationship was already complicated before the ten-year break. Tossing a heap of unwanted opinions into the mix will worsen an already bumpy road.
I wet my lips before reducing the deepness of the groove between her reddish-brown brows. “They won’t print the story until the end of the month, so you have time.” I leave my reply short, unsure which direction to take. Time to tell her family? Or is it time to stop the publication of a highly fabricated story? I truly don’t know.
Upon spotting the disappointment I cannot conceal, Emerson says, “I wanted to tell them, Mikhail. I was just…”—her chest sinks as she whispers—“worried you wouldn’t show up again.”
Again?
What does she mean again?
I was there the first time, at the end of the aisle, waiting for her.
She was the one who failed to show up.
I’m about to vocalize my confusion, when we’re joined under the awning by the photographer. “Finally!” She greets us with a warm smile before guiding Emerson toward a studio-like setup in the den, pulling her away from me. "We’ve been shooting for thirty-four minutes of an hour-long pre-shoot, so whatever this is will have to wait until after we’ve captured it for eternity.”
The photographer’s assistant gestures for me to join them in the den, though several bodies remain between Emerson and me the entire time they stage us for the shoot.
The number of bodies separating us places our conversation on the back burner and has my focus shifting to the present instead of the past. Nothing said will change our past. We can either dwell on it or let it go like we did at the waterfall.
Over the next half hour, the photographer’s voice is a constant stream of instructions.
“Mikhail, look this way.”
“Emerson, tilt your head. Perfect. Just like that.”
“Now, relax your shoulders.”
She styles Emerson’s hair as if its voluptuous look was intended for this photo shoot, her influence diminishing as my touch replaces hers. I return a stray lock of Emerson’s hair to its shiny counterparts before rubbing at the groove between her brows.
I hate the sadness in her eyes, the uncertainty. It hurts more than heartache ever could, and the reminder has me speaking as if she didn’t break my heart.
“Still my favorite color.”
I don’t need to elaborate on my reply. Emerson knows the origin of my favorite color. I told her a minimum of once a week for the three years we dated.
My fingers itch to trace her ghost-like grin, but further instructions from the photographer steal the chance.
“Hold still. Beautiful. That pose is perfect.”
She moves closer, intruding on our space, before the clicking of her camera drowns out the thump of my pulse in my ears.
Emerson and I are standing so close that I can feel Emerson’s pulse as easily as mine. It is a frantic, lively beat that proves ten years is barely a blip when it comes to a lifetime of memories.