My fake smile is back, more tarnished than ever. “He seemed good.” I repeatedly tell myself that I’m strong enough to do this while guiding my mother away from the kitchen and onto a stool. “He’s married, and his wife is expecting a child.”
Tears blur my eyes, but no amount of distortion will have me missing my mother’s shocked expression. “He is?” When I nod, she blurts out, “Since when?” I don’t have time to reply. “He was named a finalist in Russia’s bachelor of the year contest only last week.” She pulls out the magazine responsible for rating men on their sexinessandwealth before opening it to a two-page spread on the man of the hour. “See?”
I do see. I don’t want to, but a nun would struggle not to look.
Mikhail has aged like fine wine. He’s gotten better with age. His six-pack is more defined than it was during the years he took to grow into his lanky legs, and since his hair is no longer clipped close to the scalp, my fingers grow envious with the urge to rake them through his unkempt locks.
The photographer capturedalmostall his good points. I would have said all of them if the two-page spread had been in a limited print run Penthouse does once a year for its female readers.
As I cut the fat off a cheap chunk of meat, I say, “How many times do I have to tell you that most articles about celebrities are made-up stories? Lies sell magazines?—”
My eyes snap up from the cutting board when my mother interrupts. “And destroy lives. You know that better than anyone, Emmy.” Since I can’t recant her honesty, since it’s true, I remain quiet. “Em?—”
“He’s married and about to have a child, so can we please not?” I hate snapping at her. She’s so sick that we’re not even guaranteed years anymore. But this isn’t a conversation I can have right now. My heart is too fragile. It may not survive another knock.
My mother is a woeful liar, but I appreciate her ability not to flog a dead horse when she replies, “I was going to say you should replace the onion in the dish tonight with shallots. Aunt Marcelle has been on fire all afternoon. We may not survive the night if she’s served another gas-inspiring meal.”
Chapter 4
Mikhail
After taking a breath, I focus on the lawyer’s droning voice, trying to push aside my pain. It isn’t just my heart aching anymore. My thighs are fucking killing me, and my gut won’t quit crunching.
I didn’t just follow Emerson’s car out of the lot. I chased it for miles. My dress shirt is clinging to my body, my pits stink, and this will reading won’t fucking end. I want to go home, to my penthouse, open an expensive bottle of whiskey, and get lost far from my thoughts.
Blackout drunk may be the only thing capable of stopping me from driving to Lidny and demanding answers ten years too late.
It was for the best that Emerson left me, but that’s fucking hard to admit when you’re standing across from your soulmate and striving to act like she doesn’t exist.
My heart frees itself from the black, tarry mess Emerson’s resurrection dumped it in when I finally hear my name. The list of inheritors from my grandfather’s estate is endless. It’s taken almost four hours to reach this point.
In all honesty, I don’t want my grandfather’s money. I don’t need it. I’m here to see how badly he wants to fuck with me fromthe afterlife and to support Zoya’s slow merge into our messed-up family.
Did I forget to mention that Zoya is my sister? Unlike Andrik, she is a blood-related sibling. We didn’t know that until after our grandfather lodged a bullet through his brain and left us to wade through decades of secrets alone.
If we were the type to air our family secrets, we could bring down hundreds of Russia’s most elite families with us.
We’re not, hence our united front at our grandfather’s funeral and his cause of death being broadcast across the globe as naturally caused.
I would have pissed on his grave if his sudden growth of a heart hadn’t saved my baby sister’s life.
His unusual show of leniency makes me even more curious about his chosen inheritors. Today’s meeting is an invitation-only event. Emerson wouldn’t have known about it unless she had been named as a benefactor of my grandfather’s estate.
I look up when the lawyer repeats my name.
It is finally showtime.
“Mikhail, you will inherit your grandfather’s country mansion, Zelenolsk Manor, his primary suite in Moscow, and all funds left in his estate after settling any debts owed to your fellow inheritor.” Paperwork ruffles before a sum almost knocks me on my ass. “Calculation of your inheritance if all tasks are achieved exceeds five hundred million dollars.”
What. The. Fuck?
The lawyer’s sum hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. I have money. Plenty for an average schmuck. But five hundred million? That’s a fuck ton of coins.
I glance at Andrik, whose suspicious eyes are bouncing between the lawyer and the paperwork he just recited. He knows the man still playing mind games from the grave better than me, so his suspicions of his motive formulate quicker than mine.
“What are the terms of the inheritance?”
The lawyer clears his throat before scanning the documents. Since my inheritance was the last on a long ledger, the once-brimming room is almost empty. Only Andrik, Zoya, the lawyer, and I remain.
