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 searches my face again, her excavation successful this time.
This isn’t about the inheritance or the pittance we will receive for our attendance tonight. It isn’t even about my mother. It is about replacing the memories in my head where I was mocked relentlessly for “not controlling my woman” and being a jilted groom before the subsequent downgrade to shitkicker in the Dokovic realm.
That’s what the naked stranger in my apartment last year was about. She was a gift from one of my father’s biggest benefactors. A “here, have my leftovers since you can’t get your own woman” taunt. It was a slap to the face.
Although one night won’t erase a decade of torment, having a woman as refined and beautiful as Emerson on my arm will be the sweetest revenge. It will end their games in an instant and have them green with envy.
My eyes float over my wife’s face when she asks, “How long do I have to get ready?”
“An hour.” I smile to announce my gratitude for her understanding before adding, “If you don’t want to fool around in the limo. Twenty minutes if you do.”
My cock twitches when she replies, “I’ll be ready in ten.”
After snatching the dress bag from my hand, Emerson heads to the master’s suite to change. She enters for half a second before she doubles back. The tension left lingering from my unsuspected moment of vulnerability slips away when she drinks in my tuxedo from the thread in the collar to the ankle of its pricy hem.
Her gawk is hungry, and I’m as equally starved when she says, “Pack spare pants. I’ll never get Aunt Marcelle off my back if you’re photographed in cum-stained trousers.”
Chapter 37
Emerson
In front of the vanity mirror, I adjust the delicate straps of a gown that costs more than my first car. The soft fabric clings to my skin, its regalness a reminder of the significance of tonight’s event.
Mikhail’s father’s gala isn’t just another event. It is a testament to the world that the “unworthy” stamp the head of the Dokovic realm marked my forehead with ten years ago has faded, that we’re now part of the same team whether they like it or not.
After learning how people in his inner circle treated Mikhail after we broke up, I should have realized how important tonight’s event is to him. It is about schmoozing the billionaires who fund his father’s campaigns for office. It is about taking back the power they tried to strip from him and showing them that even the strongest men occasionally stumble.
His father could learn a lesson or two from his eldest son.
The stories Mikhail shared over the past week broke my heart while also fortifying my decision to keep Andrik’s secret for a little longer.
Mikhail’s relationship with his father is beyond fractured, and Mikhail believes our rekindling may be the only kilning capable of relighting the fire.
I’m confident Ellis doesn’t deserve the lifeline Mikhail is handing him, but I understand why he is extending an olive branch. His father and Andrik were the only constants in his childhood. From someone raised with an absentee father, I know that makes you cling to the most mundane snippet of attention they grant you—both good and bad.
Mikhail needs his father’s approval of our relationship more than anyone else’s, but unlike the time I spent years of savings on a pretty dress and a bus ticket to the other side of the country, I plan to show Mikhail that the only approval he needs is his own.
Sixteen years ago, I left my father’s hometown heartbroken but determined. His dismissal taught me that my worth consists of who I am, not what I have.
My mother’s love is enough for me—as mine will be for Mikhail as well.
As I add a final coat of mascara to my lashes, Mikhail enters the room, looking suave in a tailored tuxedo that showcases every spectacular ridge of his body. Lust replaces the last of the angst in his now hooded gaze when our eyes lock and hold.
“Emerson…” The pride in his tone adds more rouge coloring to my cheeks than the blush I applied in a hurry. “You look stunning.” Walking over, he presses his lips to my temple before breathing against my rapidly heating skin. “I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone as my wife.”
His wife comment already has me on edge, so I won’t mention the butterflies that erupt in my stomach when we make our way downstairs. The limousine gleams under the soft twinkle of the evening sky, and its grandeur is a symbol of what awaits us.
The driver greets us with a dip of his hat before he opens the door for Mikhail and me. “Sir. Ma’am.”
Smiling, I slide in first, eager to remove his flushed cheeks from my mind. I don’t want to recall how rheumy his cheeks already are before Mikhail orders him to circle the block. My thoughts will be far from embarrassed then.