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’d give a shit if I hadn’t learned again, only hours ago, that a man’s most prized possession isn’t materialistic.
After dumping my bottle of whiskey onto the hallway table, I lean against the wall, trying to steady myself. The wallpaper, with its horrid floral pattern, blurs before my eyes. I close them for a moment and take a deep breath. The room spins, but I stay upright—just. I drank so many shots so quickly that my veins are filled more with alcohol than blood.
When I open my eyes again, the shattered vase is still there, mocking me. I should clean it up. I hate leaving my messes to anyone else, but the thought of bending down makes my stomach churn. Instead, I kick a piece of glass out of my way, cursing again when a sharp pain hits my foot.
Looking down, I see a large piece of glass embedded in my shoe. There’s blood, too. A lot of blood. But no pain.
I laugh. Finally, the alcohol I consumed in excess has reached its desired strength.
I’m about to pull the shard out, when a voice at the side stops me in my tracks—a highly recognized and stupidly highly craved voice. “Don’t yank it out yet. We need to make sure the area is sterile before exposing a wound to the elements and ensure that the shard didn’t nick anything vital,” Emerson says, kneeling to inspect my foot.
Even though I am sloshed, my cock hardens at the image of her kneeling before me. It pisses me off how quickly she can weave herself under my skin, but cut me some slack. I didn’t lie when I said this woman could stab me in the heart repeatedly and I’d still come back for more.
I’m a fucking simp.
“There’s too much dirt on your shoes to remove the glass here.” Emerson peers up at me, her eyes full of concern. “We should do it in the bathroom. Can you walk?” Although she’s asking a question, she leaps to her feet and then bands her arm around my waist, accepting the brunt of the weight the wall was supporting.
Although she is here, helping me, it does little to drown out the last words she spoke to me.
I don’t want to be remembered as a dud.
Her voice was hazed with lust, and a fire burned in her eyes I’ve not seen in a decade that I would have given anything to squander with hours beneath the sheets, but the definition of remembered is to bring to one’s mind an awareness of someone or something from the past.
Past.
Not present.
Not future.
Past.
Spit flies in all directions when I pfft my stupidity at how easily I fell under her spell again. The flirting, the connection, the whizz back in time, were nothing but a ploy for payment.
“Why are you here, Emerson? They paid you, so you should have left hours ago.”
Ignoring me, she continues our slow and careful walk down the hallway.
I grit my teeth, the pain and alcohol making it hard to think straight. “I don’t need your help.”
I pull away and stumble two steps before falling face-first through the door of the owner’s suite.
Emerson chokes back a sob when I hit the floor with a thud. It makes her voice crackly when she pleads, “Please let me help you.”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head enough to rattle my brain. “You are only here because you’re worried about losing your mother’s placement in the trial program. You’re not here for me.”
“That isn’t true.”
I continue as if she didn’t speak. “You have no reason to fret. I will continue with our agreement as per the terms cited in our contract. Kolya drafted a media release that announces you had to return to Lidny to take care of your mother. I will take Emmy up a handful of times over the next twelve months to make it seem as if I traveled to visit you. Then, once our first-year wedding anniversary slips by unnoticed, we will announce our separation. We don’t even need to be in the same room to pull this ruse off.”
Her voice is a croak. “That isn’t what I want, Mikhail.”
“Then what do you want, Emerson?” Even though I am asking a question, I continue talking, stealing her ability to reply. “Because we sure as fuck know you don’t want me.”
I see her anger glaring up, but she refuses to nibble at the bait I’m throwing out—goddammit!
We fight, then make up.
That is how we operate.
Or should I say, that was how we operated.
“Emerson…”
Her eyes are brimming with tears, but her voice is surprisingly firm. “Let’s get your foot cleaned up first. Then we will talk.”
“No,” I shout. “You broke my heart, remember?” I spit out, my words slurred. “That’s more important than this.” I thrust my hand at my throbbing foot at the end of my sentence before ripping out the shard against her silent pleas for me not to. “It is more important than anything.”