Page 77 of The Wrong Brother

The irritating part is that he actually deserves it. Lord&Lion is truly too good to ignore. Now I can see the influence in it and can see that he’s actually put thought into leading this company.

Even standing still, he photographs beautifully. The camera crew loves him instantly because he understands angles instinctively, shifting with smooth confidence beneath the lights while giving away almost nothing emotionally. Elegant. Controlled. Dangerous.

Women keep staring at him. Men, too.

Me? I’m pretending not to.

“Emma?”

I look up from the corner where I’ve been quietly trying to stay invisible, flipping through a magazine.

A stylist is suddenly approaching me, holding what looks like several thousand dollar’s worth of cream silk.

“We’re ready for you.”

My stomach drops. “For me?”

She blinks. “Yes?”

“No one said I was participating.”

The stylist looks confused before glancing toward Ruslan across the studio.

“Oh, Mr. Smirnov approved it.”

I turn sharply toward him just as he lifts his gaze from the photographer. Pale eyes meet mine across the room, completely unbothered.

Smug bastard.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing beneath studio lights, wondering how my life became this absurd. If you had told me in my teens that I’d be standing in front of a well-known photographer, trying to follow directions for a magazine shoot, I would’ve laughed you into an early grave.

The silk dress clings softly to my body, all clean lines and understated luxury. Someone curled my hair. Someone else brushed shimmering makeup across my cheekbones while speaking rapid French at me like I belonged here.

I don’t.

The photographer certainly disagrees, though I see his eyes narrow when I have to stop myself from smoothing down the front of the dress.

“Closer,” he instructs, waving one hand impatiently as Ruslan steps beside me.

Rus’s hand settles automatically against my waist, warm, steady, andtoofamiliar. It shouldn’t make me feel comfortable, but I find myself sinking back into his touch.

The camera flashes again.

“Perfect,” the photographer says immediately. “Beautiful tension between the two of you.”

If only he knew.

I force myself not to stiffen as more photos are taken. Rus remains maddeningly composed beside me, adjusting slightlywhenever the photographer asks without ever fully removing his hand from my waist.

It feels…possessive?

Finally, during a brief lighting adjustment, I lean closer to Rus and lower my voice.

“This is afakerelationship.”

His gaze remains fixed ahead. “I am aware.”