When I scoot to the unblocked side of the booth, a deep rumble courses through my body before settling between my thighs. “Not now.” Mikhail’s laughter dies. “She’s in rehab…and will be for some time.” He aligns his eyes with mine, the admiration for my eagerness still obvious even past the cloud of hurt. “But the instant she’s given the all-clear, I’ll take you to see her.”
“Okay.” I breathe out slowly, nodding.
I suck back in the air I just released when he mutters, “After you’ve eaten breakfast, of course.”
Tingles return when I pout like a teenage girl while saying, “If skipping breakfast is the worst thing I achieve today, I’m not torturing you right.”
Chapter 20
Mikhail
With my latest battle with Emerson sailing over with relatively minor damage, I call the hospital where they admitted my mother three months ago, hopeful for good news.
My luck appears to have run out.
The news isn’t great. Her mental health is still extremely fragile, and she’s struggling to make progress. My heart aches as I absorb the information, feeling a mix of helplessness and frustration. I wish there was more I could do, but right now, all I can do is fund her recovery.
Dr. Firenze thinks that seeing me could hinder her progress. I’m a reminder of what she lost, and since I look so much like my father, she takes the loss in the wrong manner.
She still thinks she is pregnant with Zoya, which is insane to contemplate.
Zoya turns twenty-nine in a couple of months.
As I disconnect our call, after a grumbled promise that I won’t call again until next week for an update, I take a deep breath, trying to settle my anger.
This, my mother’s diagnosis, is the exact reason I struggle to remain angry at Emerson for the way she left. Before they exposed Andrik’s lineage as fraudulent, I was at the very bottom of the Dokovic totem pole. My father was one spot from the top, yet he still failed to protect my mother, so what chance did I have with Emerson?
They could have taken her from me permanently. That would have been far worse than an absence of choice, and the reminder takes care of the frustration bubbling in my gut.
The only woman I’ve ever loved is breathing in air no longer riddled with unfairness and inequality.
That’s worth any amount of heartache.
As I glance around the room, my thoughts still lingering on my mother, I detect that I am being watched. My eyes shoot to the secondary entrance of my office, my body still capable of seeking out its mate even in a crowded room.
Emerson is standing in the entryway, her presence the fresh air my lungs were seeking moments ago. She’s wearing a long-sleeved dark-red woolen sweater, its hem floating dangerously close to the waistband of her fitted jeans. Her skintight jeans flare out just above her ankle-high boots.
Her jeans aren’t the only thing about her that makes me envious. The crisscross sweater design accentuates her breasts’ natural swell, and her tight jeans display her body in cock-thickening detail.
The rich coloring of her sweater amplifies the red hue on her cheeks when she notices my prolonged watch. It isn’t my fault my tongue is hanging out of my mouth. She is stunningly beautiful. Only a fool wouldn’t gawk.
Furthermore, her beauty is a welcome distraction from the turmoil in my head, and I’m not the only one aware of this.
The excitement in Emerson’s eyes is palpable, and both my ego and cock feed off their pulses.
After a quick swallow to lube her throat, she says, “Hey.” Her plump lips lift into a soft smile. “How’s your mom?”
I try to brush off her inquisitiveness how I do anytime Zoya and Andrik try to stomp over my privacy, but my heart chooses another option. She’s arrived to offer me comfort. It would be impolite to squash it like a bug.
“Not great. But I’m trying to stay positive.”
She enters my office, further shifting my thoughts from morose to optimistic with two hip sways. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I consider her offer for half a second and then shake my head. Emerson’s comfort rarely comes in the form of words, and as much as I want to get drunk off her body, our exchange this morning still has me wary that she’ll flee the instant our contract frees her to do so.
Disappointment flares through her impressive eyes, but she hides it well. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Her support means the world to me, and it surges my gratitude for the foolish game of a lonely old man. He finally saw what I had tried to show to him all those years ago—that the pursuit of wealth only ever leads down a path of emptiness—just a decade too late.
