Page 52 of The Wrong Brother

By that evening, Emma has rebuilt every wall between us. Deliberately.

I notice because I’ve spent most of my life studying distance. The emotional kind matters more than physical space ever does. My mother, after my father’s death, did everything she could to remove herself and keep me from seeing her grieve.

Did she ever grieve?That small, traitorous voice in the back of my head whispers. She’s been gone for twenty years now, and I’m still not sure.

Emma barely looks at me while getting ready for dinner in the suite. Answers come clipped and polite. Controlled. Every trace of the reckless woman who snapped at me in California and kissed me like she hated me has vanished behind careful restraint.

I dislike it immediately.

My phone buzzes with an unknown number, and a photo of an article proof lights up my screen. It’s exactly as intended; Denver’s political circles will spiral, wondering why I’m back. As much as both sides pretend to be innocent, they know my name.

They’ll know why I returned.

Maybe one or two will even be tempted to sacrifice Andrei and save themselves.

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON: RUSLAN SMIRNOV RETURNS FOR BROTHER’S ENGAGEMENT CELEBRATION

Perfect. A short message follows after the image from a nameless man or woman somewhere out there:papers delivered at 5 a.m. tomorrow.

Yet the victory tastes strangely muted while I watch Emma fasten earrings across the hotel suite from me without meeting my eyes.

“You’re quiet,” I observe.

Normally she would narrow or roll her eyes. Tonight, she doesn’t make eye contact—just smooths down the front of the crushed green velvet dress she’s wearing.

I lean back against the bar near the hotel windows, studying her carefully. The dress clings elegantly to her curves without trying too hard. It’s sophisticated, beautiful. Something the “real” business side of me envies.

“I’m fine,” she quips, her voice higher. Emma grabs her clutch from the counter and walks toward the suite door without waiting for me. Not close enough for my hand to settle naturally against her back. Not touching.

Too much distance.

People notice these things.

I follow more slowly, irritation prowling steadily beneath my ribs.

* * *

Dinner is elegant. And cold.

The restaurant sits high above downtown Denver, all candlelight and expensive wine and wealthy people pretending not to stare at me from neighboring tables. Despite the article coming out tomorrow, word is clearly out that I’ve returned.

And beside me, Emma performs beautifully. That’s the frustrating part.

She smiles when appropriate, laughs softly at the right moments. Let me pull out her chair and touch the small of her back entering the restaurant.

But every interaction feels calculated now, planned. So different from the passion that consumed us when we both met.

And when we clashed in the guest bedroom at my home.

She is keeping herself away from me, inch by inch.

I finally lose patience halfway through dinner.

“You’re behaving strangely.”

Emma sips wine without looking up. “I’m behaving professionally.”

“No,” I correct calmly. “You are punishing me. And people will notice.”