Page 31 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Mikhail

“ W hat kind of shoot were you doing again?” Zoya pulls the phone in close as if it will make my face do the same. “I thought Playboy spreads were a solo adventure?” She snickers at my eye roll before laughing.

My words cut her chuckles short. “Stage lights are hot as fuck. What’s your excuse for your inflamed cheeks?”

I gag when she purrs like a little kitty snuggling up to her owner.

The churns of my stomach chop up my reply. “I had wondered why Andrik hadn’t shown up to kick my ass yet. Thanks for taking one for the team, Sis.”

Bile burns my throat when she murmurs, “You’re more than welcome. Andrik is?—”

“Can we skip the deets? I just ate, and I’m not a fan of vomit.” I shudder while recalling the one time I mistook vomit for porridge. My childhood went downhill from there.

After a silent apology for the greening of my gills, Zoya asks, “Seriously, how are things?”

I ponder a reply while straying my eyes to my office door. Today was different from what I was expecting. Don’t take that in a bad way. We had a handful of hiccups, but for the most part, it was a good day.

My smile radiates when I say, “We took a ride out to the waterfall.”

Zoya sits up, her adorable face filling the screen of my phone. “ The waterfall or…”

“ The waterfall.” I adjust my position while recalling how our climb to the top progressed. “Emerson nearly slipped. Honestly, it scared me half to death.”

Last night, I had decided to forgive and forget, but her near miss solidified my decision.

I’d never been more scared.

I laugh like Zoya didn’t hit the nail on the head when she says, “And that’s when you realized you still love her, so you hooked your leg over your white horse, galloped in to save her, and told her you’d never let her go ever again.

” She pffts me when I arch a brow and stare at her like I have no clue who she is.

“Shut up. Hormones are weird. One minute, I’m horny as fuck.

The next minute, I want to cry. I’d hate it if Andrik’s response to my mood swings wasn’t the same. Hot, raunchy?—”

“We kissed.”

That gains her utmost devotion and saves me from being sick. I hate vomit—from both me and others. “Tongue or no tongue?”

“Tongue,” I answer, struggling not to smirk like a smug prick.

“Grinding?”

I nod. Eagerly.

Zoya’s expression goes deadpan. “Did she moan?”

Again, I nod.

I also readjust my position again.

Even without the “big brother” title, Andrik’s control over my life is apparent when Zoya questions, “Then why did Kolya inform Andrik that the consummation of the marriage has yet to occur?” I’m not rewarded with a chance to answer.

“Because you’re worried she’ll leave the instant the deed is done? ”

I pfft like her hammer missed the nail this time around.

She knows it is a lie. “You do know there are plenty of other things you can do to take care of that bulge in your pants that don’t involve sex, right?”

She isn’t the only one skilled in acting daft. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Even if you had your crotch hidden under layers of sugary goodness, Marshmallow Man, a nun wouldn’t have missed the tent you were pitching during your photo shoot.”

It takes a moment, but my back molars grind when the truth smacks into me. “I told Konstantine to turn off surveillance at Zelenolsk, not to use it to spy on me.”

My jaw almost cracks when she whispers, “Would it make you less cranky if I said Konstantine only does as ordered?”

“Andrik—”

“Not him.”

I stare at the screen, my mouth ajar. Andrik only hands the power baton to one other person. It isn’t our father, as you’d believe. It is his wife.

“Sunshine—”

“You’re my big brother,” Zoya interrupts. “I’m just trying to keep an eye out for you.”

She’s called out as a liar by an accented voice. “And she’s the biggest snoop I know.” Dr. Nikita Ivanov’s pretty face enters the frame. She’s wearing a stethoscope, scrubs, and a friendly smile. “But we should probably give her some leeway. Bed rest isn’t fun.”

Worry echoes in my tone. “You’re on bed rest?”

Zoya waves off my fret like only months ago the gender of her baby wouldn’t have glued her missing person flyer to a milk carton.

Birthing a son only awarded you five years in the Dokovic realm.

A daughter is an instant dismissal. Or I should say was since that fascism died along with our grandfather.

“My lady bits aren’t playing nice, so Dr. Anal placed me on two weeks of bed rest.” Zoya’s eye roll is immature but effective in lowering my worry. “How do you think I know you can still relieve tension without penetration?”

I shake my head to make sure the images her question triggered do not get burned into my memory.

Zoya laughs, mindful that a dirty mind is hereditary.

Her laughter is interrupted by my phone pinging, announcing I have a message.

VTB Bank:

You transferred $58,000 to an account ending in 8179.

I sit up straight, my heart thudding against my ribs.

What the fuck?

“What?” Zoya asked, adapted to my confused expression.

I scan the screen of my phone. “Someone just transferred fifty-eight K from my checking account.”

My eyes widen when another message pings.

VTB Bank:

You paid $62,000 to Noestrdem Pty Ltd.

I clench my jaw when another message arrives.

VTB Bank:

You spent $15,800 at Moeses Online, bringing your spending to $135,800 today.

“Some fucker has hacked my bank account.”

I slide my office chair under my desk and fire up my laptop.

After three failed login attempts, my bank sends another message.

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, her access 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.