Page 7 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Emerson

M y eyes stray from the excessive figure stated next to the first item on the agenda of my proposed marriage contract with Mikhail to my mother in the doorway of my room when I notice her presence.

The number cited is enough to pay my mother’s mortgage arrears and bring her payments two months ahead, and all I have to do is stand across from Mikhail and act like I didn’t rehearse saying “I do” in front of a mirror a million times to that exact man.

It is easy money.

I hope.

Curiosity echoes in my mother’s tone when she finally announces the cause of her arrival. “Aunt Marcelle said you inherited one of Mikhail’s businesses?”

“No,” I reply, nervously gushing while hoping she won’t recognize the lace peeking out of the bottom of my oversized trench coat.

I only wore this dress once, a long time ago, for not even an hour, but its design is highly telling. It is the wedding dress I asked my mother to make when Mikhail and I had planned to marry with an intimate ceremony for two.

“That isn’t what I meant. I didn’t inherit Mikhail’s business. I was… given… a share of his businesses.”

That was the worst lie I’ve ever told, but my mother acts oblivious. “So you’re going away with him to work it out?”

I half nod, half grimace. “Since Mikhail used the equity in the bar to purchase his first business, we kind of own a share of all of his businesses.” I take back my earlier confession.

This lie is far worse than the latter. “To have everything transferred back to the correct names, I have to meet with his acquisition lawyer and sign a heap of paperwork. It should only take a week or two.” I quickly scan the top terms noted in the contract before saying, “Three at the most.”

I don’t need to stay for the twelve months of the schedule.

I’ll have enough funds to get the bar out of the red and back on track by the end of the first week of our marriage.

The following two to three weeks are purely cushioning for if Darris tries to renege on his agreement with Mikhail this morning.

“Do you have to leave right away?” my mother asks, her tone devastated as she takes in the bag I’m packing in a hurry.

“Yes. Ah… Mikhail said something about the jet being double-booked, so if we don’t leave by noon, we won’t be able to fly out for another week.”

I receive more one-way tickets to hell at the end of my sentence. I deserve them. This is what happens when you try to seduce your archnemesis instead of using morally upstanding methods.

It isn’t my fault. I forgot a decade had passed since Mikhail had fallen for the needy-bunny ruse I used anytime I found him sleeping behind my desk.

His head was flopped, his mouth was slightly ajar, and his thick arms were folded in front of his chest. He looked like he did multiple times when we dated. Back then, his exhaustion was more sexually based than from brain fatigue, though.

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” my aunt chimes in, joining us in my childhood bedroom.

Don’t look at me like that. I moved out of my mother’s home years ago. I only returned when my mother’s cancer diagnosis meant she struggled to shower and perform other daily tasks.

“We’ve missed Mikhail. Haven’t we, Inga? We would have happily accommodated him for a week.”

I’m saved from an embarrassing conversation by an unlikely source. “Who’s Mikhail?”

I glance past my mother’s shoulder, my mouth falling open when I spot the innocent face of my baby sister. “Two missed school days in a row? You should buy a lottery ticket. I’ve never been so lucky. I broke my foot, and I still had to attend classes the same afternoon.”

“Because you don’t need functioning feet to write,” my mother and aunt say at the same time.

Wynne laughs, then coughs, bringing up my defenses.

“Is she okay?”

My mother pats her back while replying, “Yes. She is a little under the weather. That’s why she’s home from school.” She hands me another reason why I must accept Mikhail’s offer. “She has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.”

Doctor visits are expensive, and we now no longer have health insurance.

I ponder pushing Mikhail’s leniencies out by an hour or two until I recall how he left my office without looking back. He doesn’t seem the type to offer compassion anymore. He once cared for my mother, but he negotiated with her health like her soul was his for trading.

I’d never speak to him again if I had any other option. The treatment stated in the contract is over two hundred thousand dollars. I could never come up with the funds in enough time, so I have no choice. I must marry the man I’m growing to hate or bury my mother.

Tears burst in my eyes just considering the latter, and it fortifies my decision.

“Will you ring me after Wynne’s consultation?”

“Of course,” my mother replies, instantly appeasing my worry. “But I’m sure it is nothing.”

“Still, please keep me updated. Not just on Wynne’s appointment, but also on your upcoming ones.”

“Of course, darling,” she repeats, eyeing me suspiciously. “I hope you will do the same.”

“With?” I say with a laugh, stupidly nervous.

“On your getaway with Mikhail. I’m sure the time you’ll spend together will inevitably stir up some old feelings. When they arrive, I’m happy to listen.”

I pfft like she didn’t hit the nail on the head. “I highly doubt I will see him. Furthermore, we were young and dumb back then. We’ve both moved on.”

When did lying become as easy as breathing to me?

Mikhail moved on with a bevy of big-breasted blondes, but the one from the will reading isn’t on the long list of many that the media has kept the public abreast with. She’s married to his brother, who now has a different surname.

During my lackluster sleep last night, I tried to make sense of the deceptive web currently weaved around the Dokovics. All the endless news articles rewarded me with was a headache.

“Emmy…”

I hate the concern in my mother’s voice, and for the umpteenth time this morning, it fills me with worry that I’m making a horrible mistake.

“I’ll stay in touch. If anything pops up, you’ll be the first to know.”

My aunt Marcelle’s eyes bulge out of her head. “ Anything, anything… or just any old thing?”

I’m reminded how much I love being raised by strong, independent women when I reply without the slightest hesitation. “ Any thing.”

I laugh when Aunt Marcelle fans her overheated cheeks. “Oh dear. I think I’m having a hot flush.”