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)
“According to her calculations, a little under forty-nine million,” I say with a laugh, shocked.
Konstantine’s deep timbre breaks through Zoya’s and Nikita’s shocked huffs. “I’ll place a hold on your accounts. It will slow down her spending.”
“No,” I answer too fast for my brain or heart to comprehend. “If my wife wants to have a tantrum, let her have a tantrum. It is her money she’s wasting.”
“Are you sure?” Konstantine checks. “She could wipe you out, Mikhail. Your accounts have no daily spending limit. It could all be gone in a matter of hours.”
I nod. “I’ve handled worse than bankruptcy when facing Emerson’s wrath.” Money couldn’t fix my broken heart.
Before Zoya or Nikita can vocalize the concern I see on their faces, I instruct Konstantine to send me Emerson’s location details. “Money attracts the worst kind of people, and I want to make sure she isn’t taken advantage of.”
Well, that’s what my heart is telling my head. In reality, I don’t want anything to come between Emerson and me—not even the possible loss of five hundred million dollars.
Chapter 25
Emerson
Apounding headache wakes me. My mouth is as dry as a desert, and my stomach is churning. The room spins, and warm bedding falls into my lap when I sit up. I groan while rubbing at the obvious signs of a hangover. My temples are throbbing, and my scaly skin shows signs of dehydration.
As I scan the owner’s suite of Zelenolsk Manor, I prompt my sluggish head for an update on what occurred last night. Portions are a blur, alcohol forever a good cure for painful memories, but a handful are clear enough to recall.
I remember transferring Mikhail’s half of the payment for the photo shoot to his bank account and the other half to my mother, and the paperwork I stumbled onto when attempting to tell Mikhail I had used his computer. But other than that, my night is a haze of short video montages.
The roiling of my stomach worsens when I glance at my phone, hopeful it will clear up some inconsistencies. Notifications from various shopping apps flood the screen. I didn’t stick with Temu and Shein this time. I splurged on goods at high-end department stores, and there’s even a purchase for a top-of-the-range sports vehicle.
The total amount on the screen makes me sick, and not even the remembrance that it is barely ten percent of the amount Mikhail tried to stiff me on eases my guilt.
I feel sick, not just from excessive drinking but from the realization of my actions when more memories flood in.
Last night, I didn’t just throw Mikhail under the bus. I tossed a handful of Zelenolsk staff under the wheels with him.
Needing to make things right, I drag myself out of bed, my body protesting every movement. I need water, something to settle my stomach, and some aspirin before I can even contemplate how to fix my monumental fuckup.
As I make my way downstairs, I recall how my spending began with spoiling the staff at Zelenolsk Manor. With Mikhail’s credit card details at the ready, I ordered a feast fit for kings and enough alcohol to make senseless mistakes seem logical.
I can’t take back the purchases. They disappeared in a matter of hours. But I can ensure that my ill judgment doesn’t affect the people who helped me forget the woes of my life for a couple of hours.
The unease of my stomach settles in my chest as I descend the spiral staircase. The silence is unsettling, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is amiss.
As I cross the marble tiles, my footsteps echo in the quietness of Zelenolsk Manor. The hum of activity from yesterday is absent, and the emptiness of such a large space feels eerie.
As I approach the kitchen, I rake my eyes across the multiple living areas. As per the worst outcome I thought possible, all the staff are gone—including the maintenance crew, who ensured I vomited on a paved area so the lawns and gardens would maintain their pristine, non-stomach-bile-scorched appearance.
A manor that once housed hundreds of residents on its grounds is silent, and my anxiety grows with each passing second.
I fucked up.
I fucked up bad.
In the kitchen, I find Mikhail. Like yesterday morning, he sits at the breakfast nook, cradling a cup of coffee. His hunched shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes are noticeable. He looks tired, though he is still the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on.
Worry spreads across my chest, but I try to play it off. “Morning. Where is everyone?”
Mikhail looks up, and that is when I realize he knows everything. The millions I squandered, the liquor I drank with his staff, and the loathsomeness I felt when I tried to flirt, only for it to be politely dismissed.
“Perhaps it is time to call it a night, Mrs. Dokovic?” rang on repeat last night.