VTB:
Your payment of 1,200,000 to Maserati Global Sales was successful.
“One point three million gone in the blink of an eye!” I mutter while typing my password in slower this time and still getting an error message. “And they seem to have locked me out of my account.”
“Not a they,” sounds a voice out of my phone, a highly recognized voice.
I stare at my phone as Zoya twists hers to face Konstantine, Andrik’s hacker and my half-brother, sitting across from her. “It’s a her.”
“Her?”
My heart beats at an unnatural rhythm when a surveillance image pops up on my phone screen. It shows Emerson entering my office twenty minutes after our photo shoot ended. She’s still wearing her wedding dress, and her dilated eyes would have you believing I’m a man who is happy to eat his wife’s pussy in front of an audience.
I’m not, so the shoot ended not long after the photographer called the first break of the shoot.
After drinking in the way Emerson’s dress hugs every one of her curves, my eyes land on a thick wad of papers in her hand. “What is she holding?”
A hum vibrates in Konstantine’s chest as he zooms in on the footage playing on my laptop. “A checkbook.” Seconds pass before he adds, “Her checkbook.”
The pieces of the puzzle slot together the more the footage rolls. Emerson sits at my desk and fires up my laptop, heraccess immediate since I don’t bother with a passcode. Finding anything of importance is difficult since Andrik buried it beneath a heap of red tape years ago.
“It looks like the magazine paid for the shoot by instant wire transfer.”
“At my request,” I reply to Zoya’s mumble. “I told them I wouldn’t accept their offer if they couldn’t pay immediately.” My tone lowers. “Emerson needed money, and she would have never accepted it from me.”
“Emerson received the entire payment for the shoot,” Konstantine says, his words as fast as his keystrokes. “She transferred fifty percent into your account and the rest into her mother’s.”
I realize this investigation is a group effort when Nikita says, “Why would she transfer your share to you, then spend far more only a few hours later?”
The answer hits us seconds later. In the footage Konstantine found, after transferring 22,500 dollars to me and 22,500 dollars to her mother, Emerson seeks a piece of paper to jot down a note that she used my laptop. She did the same anytime she borrowed my computer to order stock for the bar.
“What is that?” Nikita asks, the only one lost since she is unaware that my marriage is a sham.
“Our marriage contract,” I answer, put off by the silence. “The real one that stated she would inherit far more than I made out when I presented her my grandfather’s terms.”
“Shit,” Nikita murmurs, her cuss word almost regal sounding in her British accent. “She thinks you stiffed her, so she’s spending her share.” Her tone is piqued with interest. “How much does she have left to squander?”
“According to her calculations, a little under forty-nine million,” I say with a laugh, shocked.
Konstantine’s deep timbre breaks through Zoya’s and Nikita’s shocked huffs. “I’ll place a hold on your accounts. It will slow down her spending.”
“No,” I answer too fast for my brain or heart to comprehend. “If my wife wants to have a tantrum, let her have a tantrum. It is her money she’s wasting.”
“Are you sure?” Konstantine checks. “She could wipe you out, Mikhail. Your accounts have no daily spending limit. It could all be gone in a matter of hours.”
I nod. “I’ve handled worse than bankruptcy when facing Emerson’s wrath.” Money couldn’t fix my broken heart.
Before Zoya or Nikita can vocalize the concern I see on their faces, I instruct Konstantine to send me Emerson’s location details. “Money attracts the worst kind of people, and I want to make sure she isn’t taken advantage of.”
Well, that’s what my heart is telling my head. In reality, I don’t want anything to come between Emerson and me—not even the possible loss of five hundred million dollars.
Chapter 25
Emerson
Apounding headache wakes me. My mouth is as dry as a desert, and my stomach is churning. The room spins, and warm bedding falls into my lap when I sit up. I groan while rubbing at the obvious signs of a hangover. My temples are throbbing, and my scaly skin shows signs of dehydration.
As I scan the owner’s suite of Zelenolsk Manor, I prompt my sluggish head for an update on what occurred last night. Portions are a blur, alcohol forever a good cure for painful memories, but a handful are clear enough to recall.
