Chapter 1
Emerson
Funerals suck. They’re stuffy, lifeless—obviously—and bring out everyone from your kindergarten teacher to your second cousin’s third wife. I loathe them. But I loathe this more.
Readings of wills are where crocodile tears fade, pushed aside for money-hungry viciousness.
A lawyer’s conference room two hundred miles from my hometown holds as many people as the front rows of last month’s nationally broadcast funeral.
I’m not surprised. Andrik Dokovic Sr. was an extremely wealthy man. The combined sum in his multiple bank accounts could keep the heat on for every family in Russia for centuries to come. He was the epitome of success.
He needed to be for anyone to see past his icy-cold demeanor.
If you can’t tell, I’m not a fan of Andrik Sr. We clashed many times during the period I “associated” with a member of his family, and even with our bone-crushing love only being displayed to him as puppy love, he never let his disdain for my inclusion in his grandson’s life go unnoticed.
That’s why I’m apprehensive to learn why Andrik Sr. named me in his will.
It was probably a last-minute amendment before he croaked to remind me of my place.
“Your name doesn’t belong alongside a Dokovic,” were the last words Andrik Sr. spoke to me before he slid into the back of a chauffeur-driven government-plated car, taking my heart with him.
He uttered his scorn over a decade ago, but it still stings like a million wasp bites.
The hateful words of an angry, lonely man with nothing but money to snuggle with at night are easy to forget. But first love—the gooey, sticky kind that adheres to every damn surface of your mind, body, and soul—stays with you for a lifetime.
It also reminds you that hate isn’t a genuine emotion. It’s a façade designed to blanket your feelings in a manner appropriate for public consumption, and the only thing they give you free rein to cling to when things turn sour.
It is expected.
This, though, walking into a room that smells like old books and even older money, isn’t close to the norm.
Andrik Sr. was right. I don’t belong here.
If I had any other option, I wouldn’t be here.
Alas, beggars can’t be picky.
As my baby sister would say, you get what you get, and you don’t get upset.
After wrangling through suit-clad gents and elegantly dressed ladies, I find a spot at the end of a long mahogany conference table. I hide behind a handful of attendees mingling close enough to conceal my why-the-hell-am-I-here face.
The air is thick with anticipation and another scent I can’t quite work out. It is a little rancid, like everyone feels like they also don’t belong here, so they’re sweating as much as I am.
The thought eases my nerves a smidge, bringing them down to a manageable level.
While breathing through my nose, hoping the overspray of pricy aftershaves filling the space doesn’t tickle the back of my throat, I scan the faces surrounding me. I have allergies—badly. One wrong sniff and I’ll sneeze loud enough to erupt Klyuchevskaya Sopka.
If I want to remain hidden, I can’t activate a volcano.
My sighting of a familiar face partway through my scan makes my quest seem almost impossible. I see Mikhail, the source of the sticky, gooey mess I mentioned earlier, seated at the opposite end of the conference room. Like his designer-clad counterparts slapping his back like he won the lottery, he’s wearing a tailored suit and a fancy, show-every-inch-of-my-muscular-torso button-up shirt. He’s not wearing their hideously pompous ties and has a few buttons undone, showing more skin.
He’s older than the memories that broadcast like a high-budget movie anytime my heart rebels against my head by taking a trip down memory lane, but he still has that fuckboy eat-your-heart-out look that has every woman in a five-mile radius desperate for a fresh pair of panties.
Myself included.
He’s the hottest guy in the room, and he knows it.Regretfully.
My eye roll in defiance of his cocky confidence glitches halfway around. The very essence of Mikhail’s now type has entered the room, and I’m not the only one eyeballing her arrival. Mikhail waves her over with an eagerness I haven’t seen cross his face in over a decade—and I’ve read every tabloid article printed about him in the past ten years.
