Page 48 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Emerson

I n front of the vanity mirror, I adjust the delicate straps of a gown that costs more than my first car. The soft fabric clings to my skin, its regalness a reminder of the significance of tonight’s event.

Mikhail’s father’s gala isn’t just another event. It is a testament to the world that the “unworthy” stamp the head of the Dokovic realm marked my forehead with ten years ago has faded, that we’re now part of the same team whether they like it or not.

After learning how people in his inner circle treated Mikhail after we broke up, I should have realized how important tonight’s event is to him.

It is about schmoozing the billionaires who fund his father’s campaigns for office.

It is about taking back the power they tried to strip from him and showing them that even the strongest men occasionally stumble.

His father could learn a lesson or two from his eldest son.

The stories Mikhail shared over the past week broke my heart while also fortifying my decision to keep Andrik’s secret for a little longer.

Mikhail’s relationship with his father is beyond fractured, and Mikhail believes our rekindling may be the only kilning capable of relighting the fire.

I’m confident Ellis doesn’t deserve the lifeline Mikhail is handing him, but I understand why he is extending an olive branch.

His father and Andrik were the only constants in his childhood.

From someone raised with an absentee father, I know that makes you cling to the most mundane snippet of attention they grant you—both good and bad.

Mikhail needs his father’s approval of our relationship more than anyone else’s, but unlike the time I spent years of savings on a pretty dress and a bus ticket to the other side of the country, I plan to show Mikhail that the only approval he needs is his own.

Sixteen years ago, I left my father’s hometown heartbroken but determined. His dismissal taught me that my worth consists of who I am, not what I have.

My mother’s love is enough for me—as mine will be for Mikhail as well.

As I add a final coat of mascara to my lashes, Mikhail enters the room, looking suave in a tailored tuxedo that showcases every spectacular ridge of his body. Lust replaces the last of the angst in his now hooded gaze when our eyes lock and hold.

“Emerson…” The pride in his tone adds more rouge coloring to my cheeks than the blush I applied in a hurry. “You look stunning.” Walking over, he presses his lips to my temple before breathing against my rapidly heating skin. “I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone as my wife.”

His wife comment already has me on edge, so I won’t mention the butterflies that erupt in my stomach when we make our way downstairs. The limousine gleams under the soft twinkle of the evening sky, and its grandeur is a symbol of what awaits us.

The driver greets us with a dip of his hat before he opens the door for Mikhail and me. “Sir. Ma’am.”

Smiling, I slide in first, eager to remove his flushed cheeks from my mind. I don’t want to recall how rheumy his cheeks already are before Mikhail orders him to circle the block. My thoughts will be far from embarrassed then.

Our plan to get frisky during the commute hits a snag when I look up to ensure the privacy partition has settled into place. We’re not alone.

The virile, endorphin-enriched air makes sense when my eyes lock on Zoya and Andrik seated across from me. Zoya’s blush also isn’t synthetic, and the heady scent of lust makes the confines of the limousine seem half the size.

When Mikhail settles in next to me and closes the door, I can’t help but giggle.

The interior lights of the limousine expose a flaw in his tuxedo I didn’t notice earlier.

The suit pants he switched out to ensure he didn’t greet his father’s benefactors in cum-stained pants are more a charcoal gray than black, and the stitch is a whip stitch instead of a back stitch.

Zoya’s laughter echoes with mine. “You didn’t tell them we were chaperoning them to the gala, did you?

” She doesn’t wait for Andrik to answer her.

“Why would he when he organized for the chauffeur to collect us first… an hour earlier than necessary.” Her scald has no heat to it, and everyone knows it.

After flicking her eyes to me, she greets us.

“Hello… I’m sorry to have ruined your fun. ”

I wave off her apology as if I’m not gutted. “It’s fine. Truly.” I wouldn’t be me if I stopped now. “As long as there is more than one storage closet in the ballroom, everything will work out fine.”

I am a woeful liar. The further the limo travels, the more aware I become of how good Mikhail smells.

He showered before dressing in his tuxedo, but remnants of our exchange in his sports car are clinging to his skin.

I can smell my arousal on his mouth and taste him on my tongue, and it makes the sexual tension bristling between us excruciating.

Even something as simple as his thumb raking the top of my hand after gathering it in his could set me ablaze.

I’m horny as hell and struggling not to squirm.

Mercifully, I can excuse my writhes as nerves.

They’re bubbling too, building with each mile we travel.

They are almost at the boiling point when we reach the venue, and we’re escorted through a dark corridor by two security guards.

The air thickens with anticipation when Mikhail tells me he will be back in a minute before he disappears into the crowd with Andrik shadowing his fast and furious steps.

The room is brimming with elegantly-dressed men and women, but the energy is off. It feels odd, like we’re once again sardines crammed into a conference room, awaiting the will reading of a man no one liked.

It feels like my heart is going to thud out of my chest, and the likelihood increases when Zoya announces the cause of the delay. “This is where we’re meant to wait for approval before we can walk the gauntlet.”

I peer at her in shock, stunned she needs approval to attend her own father’s event.

She is his daughter, his flesh and blood.

Also, isn’t that what invitations are for?

I realize it isn’t solely our status being judged when a woman with a clipboard and a snarky tsk rakes her disapproving gaze down the dress of an attendee.

She judges her gown as harshly as someone would the digits in her bank account, and it has me suddenly grateful Mikhail steered me toward this dress instead of the one I tried to pass off as acceptable.

Seconds feel like hours as Zoya and I wait for Mikhail and Andrik’s return, the silence only broken by the occasional murmur of voices—raised voices.

I glance at Zoya, who gives me a reassuring smile when the voices register as familiar. Andrik isn’t happy about the delay, and he isn’t a man who will stand by and allow someone to rate his wife’s acceptability via a spreadsheet printout.

Mikhail is right there beside him, demanding the same level of respect for me. “Emerson is my wife. My. Fucking. Wife. Disrespect her again, and more than your job will be on the line.”

“ Oh …” Zoya half moans, half purrs. “Perhaps Marshmallow Man wasn’t lying when he said his heart is the only soft and gooey thing about him.” She hits me with a frisky wink that lowers my angst in an instant. “His backbone seems extremely sturdy of late. Shall we go check it out for ourselves?”

When she holds out her hand in offering, soundlessly suggesting we go against the grain, I slip my hand into hers and then lead our walk toward the men defending our honor.

Mikhail beams at me when I arrive at his side, his pride unmistakable. His eyes are full of confidence, and the scent of a man in charge invigorates the lust in my veins.

Everything inside me twists into a mess of need and anxiousness when a second after replacing Zoya’s hand with his, the doors three guards are manning open, and we’re given the nod of approval to enter.

We step into the entrance of the ballroom, and the atmosphere is electric. The who’s who of Russia is in attendance, but instead of the focus being on them, everyone’s eyes are locked on Andrik, Zoya, Mikhail, and me.

Not even Ellis, Mikhail’s father and apparent man of the hour, gets a look in. His benefactors absentmindedly shift to our half of the room, eager to greet the fresh blood needed to resurrect an overrun and stale realm.

Mikhail greets over a hundred guests in a matter of minutes. He introduces me to every one of them as his wife, his voice ringing with pride as he ensures I am included in each exchange.

The shift of power between the powerhouses of the Dokovic realm is felt across the room, and my hunger for the man finally demanding his worth feeds off it. I’m hot all over, my skin physically warm to the touch.

Mikhail looks every inch the powerful, brilliant man he was born to be, and I am honored to witness his resurrection firsthand.

Camera flashes dance white spots in front of my eyes when Mikhail places his hand on the small of my back to guide me toward the ballroom hosting the main event.

Photographers shout a range of questions as we move through a gauntlet of media capturing tonight’s event, but most steer in one direction.

Who is the mysterious redhead on Mikhail’s arm?

Thankfully, they keep the rest of their confusion on the down-low. I don’t need to be reminded of how many times Mikhail has been photographed with a busty blonde on his arm. All I need to remember is how he introduces me to the people capturing this moment in time for eternity.

Mikhail’s fingers flex against my back as he peers down at me with a hint of a smile gracing his plump lips. “This is Emerson Morozov, my wife.” Camera flashes burst around us as he commences spelling my name to ensure there are no misprints in tomorrow’s newspapers. “E-M-E-R-S-O-N?—”

His smile turns as blinding as the camera flashes when I interrupt, “Dokovic. D-O-K-O-V-I-C.” I return his needy stare while speaking words I’ve practiced a million times already. “Emerson Dokovic, wife of Mikhail Dokovic.”