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I was bursting with pride about Emerson’s achievement, and pleased that the restaurant was leveling up. We’d always been successful, with bookings going out for months and celebrities clamoring to be let in on a regular basis. This was the first time a world-famous food critic had approached my head chef for an interview, and that was all Emerson.

My wife was normally so confident in the kitchen, but she made me swear up and down that I had nothing to do with it, unable to believe she was just that good. Her modesty was one of the things I admired about her. Why would I have set it up when I was trying to keep her under wraps until after our second wedding, or until Arkadi tired himself out and found someone else to torment?

It was only seeing how happy she was to be chosen that had me relenting, and even kind of wishing I had set the whole thing up. I wished I could see her face when she met the critic whose opinion meant so much to her. It didn’t feel right leaving her to go somewhere that wasn’t Khoroshiy, which I had crawling with guards.

It just plain didn’t feel right not to share such a milestone with her. I didn’t want to hear about it second hand, I wanted to be part of this victory. In fact, it felt like shit that I was prioritizing a business meeting over Emerson.

The meeting was an important one, and had been on my books for over a month. The Japanese company was eager to make a deal that would make all of us close to a quarter of a billion dollars if it went through as planned. Which it should have with no problem since I’d had a team poring over every detail of the contract and subsequent plans.

As I walked through my office building lobby, I should have been preparing for this meeting, brushing up on my Japanese greetings, and striking the right tone between no-nonsense and accommodating to these people who were every bit as powerful in their own country as I was here.

Instead, I was consumed with thoughts about Emerson and her interview. I’d never been so protective or possessive, or yes, obsessive, about any woman before. After just this short time together, she was my whole life, and damn it, I wanted to spend all her best moments with her.

Yes, she’d be with her guard, who was my most ruthless on staff, and this was all business, but the idea of her being in a hotel room with another man left a bitter taste in my mouth that not even a breath mint could erase. I snapped the mint in two with my back teeth and groaned as I made my way to the conference room.

“I’m sorry,” I said, after executing my Japanese greeting to everyone. “But I have to reschedule the meeting.”

After explaining that I was a newlywed and that my wife was having a very important interview, I hoped they would understand and not storm back to Tokyo and tear up our contracts. At the moment, I hardly cared. The idea of not being with Emerson overrode everything else.

Thankfully, they didn’t seem pissed off and were happy to see me the next morning before their return flight. On the way back down the elevator, a couple of the men good-naturedly teased me, and one asked who the interview was with.

“He’s huge,” I said proudly, grabbing my phone to show them all the places Torrance had traveled to in order to sample the world’s best food.

My wide grin faded when I found the critic’s social media account. This couldn’t be right. The elevator doors opened, but I stayed frozen in place, scrolling through the pictures that had just been posted, according to their timestamps. The business partners stood awkwardly, with one reaching to keep the elevator from shutting us in.

I waved them on, barely able to acknowledge their polite goodbyes and promises to meet the next day. I was laser-focused on the phone, trying desperately to disprove what I saw with my own eyes.

Torrance Harding wasn’t in Los Angeles today at all, but at a food festival in Berlin. Not a single mention anywhere about heading this way in the near future, either, which told me that Emerson didn’t confuse the dates of the meeting.

“Damn it,” I hissed, looking up from my shock to see I was still in the elevator.

No longer concerned about anything but Emerson’s immediate safety, I slammed my fist against the button to open the door and tore past some confused people who were just about to enter it. My feet couldn’t carry me fast enough as I raced to get to the hotel where Emerson had been lured under false pretenses. Once in my car, every stoplight was a knife twisting my gut, as all I could do was pray I wasn’t too late, and finally began ignoring them altogether in my haste.

Who the hell was with my wife?