Page 1 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Emerson

F unerals 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 facade 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.

He seemed happy, but not like this. This is above glee. He looks complete. Whole. Not close to the miserable, sad person I’ve become.

The mysterious woman is blonde, short, and gorgeous. And she has a noticeable yet still tiny baby bump that Mikhail caresses when she joins him in the premium seats.

What the?

My breath hitches in my throat as anger overtakes my curiosity.

Mikhail was expected to be here and to interact with a woman with more class in her pinky finger than I have in my entire body.

It is, after all, his grandfather’s will reading.

But this—a baby—is a slap in the face I’m struggling to ignore.

It burns knowing he’s moved forward with the plans we made.

My back molars are nearly ground to stubs when I notice the generous rock on the blonde’s ring finger. It is too many carats for her tiny finger to hold up, and it screams, “I married a rich man.”

I stop endeavoring to singe a hole in the conference room table to discover if Mikhail is the man in question when the lawyer clears his throat, announcing the commencement of the will reading.

I try to focus on the meeting that stripped the last of my funds for half a tank of gas, but it is a struggle when Mikhail slips off his chair before he offers it to the blonde.

His left hand is now exposed, but too many people separate us to see his ring finger.

The crowd coos in sync when he assists the unnamed blonde onto his seat before pushing her in and standing protectively behind her.

He still has charm by the mile, and no chance in hell of utilizing it on me.

I was determined before I arrived to steer clear of him. His pretty wife and her teeny-tiny baby bump seal my resolve beneath a slab of concrete.

I don’t care how attractive the package is. If it belongs to someone else, I won’t even look at the packing slip to unearth what’s hiding beneath its layers of tape and cardboard.

Cheaters don’t deserve to breathe air.

They’re on par with men who leave you at the altar.

A pang of nostalgia hits me when the lawyer reads the will. He starts at the multiple charities Andrik Sr. initiated when his campaign for office ramped up.

Not all my memories are good.

Mikhail shared many stories about his grandfather when we were together. They strengthened my belief that Andrik Sr. was a cruel, vindictive man with a heart of ice.

He didn’t deserve his success or the utmost devotion of almost everyone in the room.

As the lawyer drones on, I glance at Mikhail, wondering if he is being hit with a similar sting of regret.

He had to abide by his grandfather’s terms.

I merely had to live with the results of them.

Mikhail seems as captivated by his grandfather’s charity work as the people who divide us do, but a hint of the boy I once loved remains behind his impassive expression.

His left hand, now hidden in his pocket instead of beneath a conference room table, is balled, and his right hand is fiddling with a thread in his trousers that not even the world’s best tailor would have noticed.

He’s keeping his mind on anything but the proceedings occurring, silence still his prime go-to coping mechanism.

The room suddenly shrinks when Mikhail’s eyes slide my way. As he scans the faces of the multiple people sheltering me, I ponder what he’s thinking and if he’s noticed my presence.

The air grows dense as memories of our past swirl around me.

No matter how large the crowd or how big the gathering, Mikhail always found me.

A smile plays at my lips as more memories load. I lost count of how often I hid from him when we went out. It was my favorite game, but it ended brutally when, on the one occasion I wanted him to find me the most, he never did.

Seeing Mikhail again has stirred something within me, something I thought was long buried.

It honestly hurts remembering how close we came to happiness before he cruelly stripped it away.

Our relationship was a fairy tale that became a nightmare in less than twenty-four hours, and he’s now living his happily ever after with someone else.

As I wipe my cheeks to ensure they’re dry, I sink toward the exit. I shouldn’t have come. It was foolish of me, but desperation can lead you to act in a way you swore you never would. I had to know why they summoned me and couldn’t postpone my curiosity.

I won’t make the same mistake twice.

My legs are unsteady as I walk toward the door, my heart and head torn on whether I’m making the right choice.

The last time I walked away when I was apprehensive was the last time I saw Mikhail.

That was ten long years ago.

Just before I exit, my name is called. I glance at Mikhail, stupidly assuming he wants to acknowledge my presence before I leave.

The past and present collide when our eyes lock and hold.

Mikhail stares at me as if he is seeing a ghost. I learn that he is when my name is repeated.

It didn’t come from Mikhail. He keeps his lips pressed too tightly for words to pass through.

It came from the lawyer helming the meeting, from a man who announces my cowardice to the room when I slowly drift my watering eyes to him.

“Where are you going? Proceedings have only just begun. We’re not close to being done yet.”

“I… ah…” I return my eyes to Mikhail, and for a brief moment, understanding passes between us. It confirms my decision to leave was right and provides the farewell I was denied years ago. “I shouldn’t have come. I don’t belong here.”

Pain stabs my chest when Mikhail briefly dips his chin, agreeing with me, before he watches me exit without so much as a backward glance.