Page 29 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Mikhail

T ension 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 decision she made. 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 my establishments 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.

I wet my lips before reducing the deepness of the groove between her reddish-brown brows.

“They won’t print the story until the end of the month, so you have time.

” I leave my reply short, unsure which direction to take.

Time to tell her family? Or is it time to stop the publication of a highly fabricated story? I truly don’t know.

Upon spotting the disappointment I cannot conceal, Emerson says, “I wanted to tell them, Mikhail. I was just…”—her chest sinks as she whispers—“worried you wouldn’t show up again.”

Again?

What does she mean again ?

I was there the first time, at the end of the aisle, waiting for her.

She was the one who failed to show up.

I’m about to vocalize my confusion, when we’re joined under the awning by the photographer.

“Finally!” She greets us with a warm smile before guiding Emerson toward a studio-like setup in the den, pulling her away from me.

"We’ve been shooting for thirty-four minutes of an hour-long pre-shoot, so whatever this is will have to wait until after we’ve captured it for eternity. ”

The photographer’s assistant gestures for me to join them in the den, though several bodies remain between Emerson and me the entire time they stage us for the shoot.

The number of bodies separating us places our conversation on the back burner and has my focus shifting to the present instead of the past. Nothing said will change our past. We can either dwell on it or let it go like we did at the waterfall.

Over the next half hour, the photographer’s voice is a constant stream of instructions.

“Mikhail, look this way.”

“Emerson, tilt your head. Perfect. Just like that.”

“Now, relax your shoulders.”

She styles Emerson’s hair as if its voluptuous look was intended for this photo shoot, her influence diminishing as my touch replaces hers. I return a stray lock of Emerson’s hair to its shiny counterparts before rubbing at the groove between her brows.

I hate the sadness in her eyes, the uncertainty. It hurts more than heartache ever could, and the reminder has me speaking as if she didn’t break my heart.

“Still my favorite color.”

I don’t need to elaborate on my reply. Emerson knows the origin of my favorite color. I told her a minimum of once a week for the three years we dated.

My fingers itch to trace her ghost-like grin, but further instructions from the photographer steal the chance.

“Hold still. Beautiful. That pose is perfect.”

She moves closer, intruding on our space, before the clicking of her camera drowns out the thump of my pulse in my ears.

Emerson and I are standing so close that I can feel Emerson’s pulse as easily as mine. It is a frantic, lively beat that proves ten years is barely a blip when it comes to a lifetime of memories.

I couldn’t remember a single bad thing she did or said when she was moaning beneath me, begging for me to touch her. It was just us against the world.

“Almost done. Just a few more, then we’re almost set for the real thing.” The photographer’s last sentence breaks the tangible string tethering us together.

“Real thing?” Emerson asks, her shock as high as my brows. “Is this not the actual shoot?”

With a giggle, the photographer lowers her camera.

“This is the pre-shoot to check we have the lighting right. We don’t want any pesky shadows hiding your beautiful face.

” She snaps another handful of photos I plan to purchase for my private collection.

Emerson’s confused face is adorable. It is one of my favorite features.

“This is also a bridal shoot. We can’t have you photographed in muddy jeans and a lint-pilled sweater.

We have a range of gorgeous dresses ready for your approval. ”

Emerson’s eyes stray to the rack the photographer points out before she returns them front and center. “I don’t want a random dress.”

“The dresses aren’t random. Well-known designers crafted all of them. They’re elegant and beautiful?—”

“But they’re not my dress. It isn’t the dress I wore when we wed.” Emerson’s eyes are on me, hot and wet. “It isn’t the dress my mother made for me to marry you in.”

My eyes bounce between hers for several long seconds.

I didn’t give her much time to agree to my proposal.

I didn’t want to give logic the chance to enter the equation.

So there’s no way her mother would have had enough time to whip together a basic dress, much less the intricately designed gown she wore yesterday.

That can only mean one thing. She wore the dress she was meant to wear ten years ago—the one her mother made when we decided to elope.

Not only does that reveal she held on to her wedding dress for over ten years, as I had our wedding rings, but it also shows she didn’t go into this with a totally closed mind. She put thought into it, and feelings.

I turn to face Loretta, who is watching the shoot with a handful of staff. “Bring Emerson’s dress to the den.”

The photographer gasps. “We have a contract to endorse a designer for this feature. She can’t wear a dress her mother made. That would be preposterous.”

“Either my wife wears the dress she wore when we wed, or we cancel the shoot.” My tone is the same snapped timbre I used when my grandfather, who at the time was the president of our great country, thought he could railroad me into marrying a stranger.

I was drunk, alcohol my only defense when fighting the urge to drive to Lidny and demand answers years too late, when he handed me a list of socialites to pick from.

I tossed their dossiers into the fireplace before I stormed out. My journey to Lidny ended abruptly when I crashed into a gulley, resulting in a drunk driving arrest.

My grandfather swept my criminal record under the rug, but it came at a cost. He relegated me to the lowest position I’d ever held and withheld the inheritance all Dokovic sons receive on their twenty-first birthday.

Fortunately for me, I already had a successful establishment under my belt, and my determination not to follow my grandfather’s life plan saw it expanding into a multi-location establishment within the next twelve months.

The photographer sighs, shifting my focus back to the present before she glances at her team to gauge their response to my threat.

They all side in my favor. Even Kolya.

“It isn’t ideal, but if it’s that important to her?—”

“It’s important to me,” I interrupt, stopping her from saying something that will see this shoot ending before it has truly begun.

“If it’s that important to you,” the photographer corrects, “we’ll make it work.” She flicks her eyes to Emerson, who is staring at me in awe. “Perhaps we can get a handful of shots of you in their garments that we can use in future promotional features?”

Emerson nods, happy with the compromise.

Her agreeing gesture slackens the worried lines scouring the photographer’s forehead. “Okay. Great.”

While she barks orders at her team, Emerson hands me everything I’d lost with two short words. “Thank you.”