As my bra falls to the floor, Mikhail stares at me as if it is the first time he’s seen me naked, and his hooded watch makes it seem as if I am worth millions of dollars.
“Like a fine wine,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper.
He drinks me in for several long minutes before he plucks the dress from its hanger as if it is worthless and then carefully slides it over my head. The brushes of his hands as he guides the delicate material down my body doubles the tension firing between us.
I’m moments from being set ablaze when the back of his hand brushes past my aching pussy. It isn’t solely his touch setting me on fire, but how he treats me as if I am worth far more than the pricy gown he’s assisting me into.
He once told me that a man’s wealth should never be calculated by the funds in his bank account. That true wealth can only be measured by the memories in his heart.
He is making true on his statement now.
Mikhail’s eyes lift to mine when I whisper, “They’re not selling dresses here. They are selling fantasies.” A familiar glint sparks in his eyes. “Fantasies of what could happen in this dress. How someone puts it on and takes it off. The fantasy of being looked at like you are looking at me now. That alone makes the steep price tag seem worth it. But they’ve failed to realize you’d still look at me the same way even in a thrift store–purchased garment.”
His lack of retort assures me of this, not to mention the thickness behind me.
The love in his eyes, the pure admiration, has me so desperate for answers I act impulsively, like my heart’s fractures don’t matter. “Why?”
Why did you leave?
Why give me enough to hook me for life with no desire to reel me in?
Why do you look at me as if I broke your heart when it was the opposite?
Mikhail’s furrowed brows convince me that he heard the words my confused and broken heart refuse to express, butbefore he can answer me, we’re interrupted by a likely source since this is her boutique.
“Wow. You are the exact picture I envisioned while designing that dress.”
Chapter 22
Mikhail
Tension fills the ride back to Zelenolsk. It isn’t all sexual this time. I’m confused as to why Emerson continues to seek answers from me for the decisionshemade. Her questions are rarely vocalized, but I feel them pumping out of her every time we lock eyes.
She is acting like she’s as lost as I am as to why we broke up, and the confusion is muddling my mind more than my body’s inability to act nonchalantly in her presence.
It wants her no matter the cost, and in all honesty, so does my heart. That’s what my machoism at the boutique was about. I wanted her to rebel, mindful that sometimes the only time she is truly defenseless is when she’s fighting no one but herself.
She didn’t rebel. She submitted, and it has me the most confused I’ve ever been.
As we approach Zelenolsk, I remember a plan I made before I drank any caffeine. People are bustling around the manicured lawns and numerous sitting rooms, setting up equipment and arranging props.
Accepting a five-figure deal for a photo shoot with a world-renowned gossip magazine seems senseless when myestablishments profit more than that per hour, but I knew it was the only way I could help Emerson without risking losing her for another ten years.
Her share will allow her to contribute to the funds her mother is seeking, but it will keep her at my side hopefully long enough to get some answers.
I park my bike at the side entrance of Zelenolsk Manor before assisting Emerson off. Crinkled brows and twisted lips show her confusion, and it makes me smile.
It is about time I handed her the confused baton.
I relish her bewilderment for a few seconds before attempting to ease it. “I thought a photo shoot would be a good way to announce our nuptials.”
“Oh.” Emerson nods, agreeing with my concept, but her eyes betray her nonchalant reply. I learn why when she twists to face me. “I didn’t tell my family about this.” Her hand flaps between us during the “this” part of her reply. “I made out I came here to endorse some business documents. That’s why I deleted the images of us off the teen’s phone. Our agreement shouldn’t be revealed to my family by the media. I want to tell them myself.”
With furrowed brows, I stare at her. I’d wondered what she had told her family about our agreement. Now I have my answer.
Although it hurts to acknowledge she told them our marriage contract is nothing more than a business transaction, I prefer it over believing she deleted the images from the teen’s phone because she didn’t want to be photographed with me.
Our relationship was already complicated before the ten-year break. Tossing a heap of unwanted opinions into the mix will worsen an already bumpy road.
