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)
I stare at the screen, my mouth ajar. Andrik only hands the power baton to one other person. It isn’t our father, as you’d believe. It is his wife.
“Sunshine—”
“You’re my big brother,” Zoya interrupts. “I’m just trying to keep an eye out for you.”
She’s called out as a liar by an accented voice. “And she’s the biggest snoop I know.” Dr. Nikita Ivanov’s pretty face enters the frame. She’s wearing a stethoscope, scrubs, and a friendly smile. “But we should probably give her some leeway. Bed rest isn’t fun.”
Worry echoes in my tone. “You’re on bed rest?”
Zoya waves off my fret like only months ago the gender of her baby wouldn’t have glued her missing person flyer to a milk carton. Birthing a son only awarded you five years in the Dokovic realm. A daughter is an instant dismissal. Or I should say was since that fascism died along with our grandfather.
“My lady bits aren’t playing nice, so Dr. Anal placed me on two weeks of bed rest.” Zoya’s eye roll is immature but effective in lowering my worry. “How do you think I know you can still relieve tension without penetration?”
I shake my head to make sure the images her question triggered do not get burned into my memory.
Zoya laughs, mindful that a dirty mind is hereditary.
Her laughter is interrupted by my phone pinging, announcing I have a message.
VTB Bank:
You transferred $58,000 to an account ending in 8179.
I sit up straight, my heart thudding against my ribs.
What the fuck?
“What?” Zoya asked, adapted to my confused expression.
I scan the screen of my phone. “Someone just transferred fifty-eight K from my checking account.”
My eyes widen when another message pings.
VTB Bank:
You paid $62,000 to Noestrdem Pty Ltd.
I clench my jaw when another message arrives.
VTB Bank:
You spent $15,800 at Moeses Online, bringing your spending to $135,800 today.
“Some fucker has hacked my bank account.”
I slide my office chair under my desk and fire up my laptop.
After three failed login attempts, my bank sends another message.
VTB:
Your payment of 1,200,000 to Maserati Global Sales was successful.
“One point three million gone in the blink of an eye!” I mutter while typing my password in slower this time and still getting an error message. “And they seem to have locked me out of my account.”
“Not a they,” sounds a voice out of my phone, a highly recognized voice.
I stare at my phone as Zoya twists hers to face Konstantine, Andrik’s hacker and my half-brother, sitting across from her. “It’s a her.”
“Her?”
My heart beats at an unnatural rhythm when a surveillance image pops up on my phone screen. It shows Emerson entering my office twenty minutes after our photo shoot ended. She’s still wearing her wedding dress, and her dilated eyes would have you believing I’m a man who is happy to eat his wife’s pussy in front of an audience.
I’m not, so the shoot ended not long after the photographer called the first break of the shoot.
After drinking in the way Emerson’s dress hugs every one of her curves, my eyes land on a thick wad of papers in her hand. “What is she holding?”
A hum vibrates in Konstantine’s chest as he zooms in on the footage playing on my laptop. “A checkbook.” Seconds pass before he adds, “Her checkbook.”
The pieces of the puzzle slot together the more the footage rolls. Emerson sits at my desk and fires up my laptop, her access immediate since I don’t bother with a passcode. Finding anything of importance is difficult since Andrik buried it beneath a heap of red tape years ago.
“It looks like the magazine paid for the shoot by instant wire transfer.”
“At my request,” I reply to Zoya’s mumble. “I told them I wouldn’t accept their offer if they couldn’t pay immediately.” My tone lowers. “Emerson needed money, and she would have never accepted it from me.”
“Emerson received the entire payment for the shoot,” Konstantine says, his words as fast as his keystrokes. “She transferred fifty percent into your account and the rest into her mother’s.”
I realize this investigation is a group effort when Nikita says, “Why would she transfer your share to you, then spend far more only a few hours later?”
The answer hits us seconds later. In the footage Konstantine found, after transferring 22,500 dollars to me and 22,500 dollars to her mother, Emerson seeks a piece of paper to jot down a note that she used my laptop. She did the same anytime she borrowed my computer to order stock for the bar.
“What is that?” Nikita asks, the only one lost since she is unaware that my marriage is a sham.
“Our marriage contract,” I answer, put off by the silence. “The real one that stated she would inherit far more than I made out when I presented her my grandfather’s terms.”
“Shit,” Nikita murmurs, her cuss word almost regal sounding in her British accent. “She thinks you stiffed her, so she’s spending her share.” Her tone is piqued with interest. “How much does she have left to squander?”