Page 92 of The Wrong Brother

We pull up in front of the hotel, and a doorman starts walking to the curb.

Frank adjusts his coat and sighs softly. “Power matters. Money matters. Revenge can feel righteous for a while.” His gaze shifts toward me again. “But eventually, you must decide what actually deserves your loyalty.”

Chapter 23

Emma

Sunlight still clings stubbornlyto summer even though the shadows carry a noticeable chill. I trail behind one of Ruslan’s assistants through an upscale outdoor shopping district, trying not to feel ridiculous about the fact that this woman was apparently flown in from California specifically because I needed “better evening shoes.” Judging by the families we pass with small children already bundled up in heavy jackets, I might be better off with winter boots.

Her name is Nadya, and she is terrifyingly efficient.

“You fidget when you’re nervous,” she informs me while scanning a rack of silk blouses tucked inside a boutique’s foyer. “People notice.”

“I wasn’t aware I was under professional review.”

“You are with Mr. Smirnov. Everything is under review.”

That’s comforting. Trying to school my face into something neutral, I flex my hands and force myself to keep them at my sides. And try to look relaxed.

The promenade is crowded. Ever since the fashion shoot, I’ve become hyperaware of how public this entire disaster has become. Rus and Andrei fighting made the tabloids. The wedding coverage is escalating daily. At this point, I half expect TMZ to burst out from behind a potted plant.

The thought barely finishes before my stomach drops.

Oh no.

Twenty feet away, emerging from a jewelry boutique with two women trailing behind her, is Victoria.

Andrei’s fiancée looks polished in a way I used to envy. She’s wearing a cream sweater, her hair somehow managing to look sleek but not greasy. The massive engagement ring catches sunlight every time she moves her hand. She belongs perfectly in Colorado society; the kind of woman photographed beside smiling senators and charity boards.

If she sees me…

My heart rockets immediately as I glance around for photographers. There are enough wealthy people here that paparazzi lingering nearby wouldn’t exactly be shocking. The last thing I need is photographs of me “cornering” or “confronting” Andrei Smirnov’s fiancée in the middle of a shopping district.

I turn slightly, intending to disappear into the nearest store and ditch Nadya if I have to.

Then Victoria looks up.

Our eyes meet.

Recognition flashes across her face, followed by… fear?

It can’t be fear of me. She doesn’t even know me. And the way she glances around, but keeps moving in my direction, barely slowing, makes me realize that this fear is generalized.

Victoria says something quietly to the women beside her before walking toward me alone. Nadya notices, and her eyes darken, hand going to her bag in such a practiced way that there’s a good chance she’s notjustan assistant.

Up close, Victoria looks more tired than she does on television. Her makeup is flawless, but not flawless enough to fully hide the faint discoloration near her collarbone.

Bruises.

My chest tightens unexpectedly, wrist aching at the memory.

There’s no way those bruises are accidental. I remember long nights with Andrei where his hands gripped too tightly once the bedroom door closed and the polished politician mask slipped away. Back then, I convinced myself passion explained everything.

Now that I’m on his bad side, I know better. There’s a hidden violence in that man. And apparently, Victoria is on the receiving end.

Nadya notices the shift in my expression immediately and subtly steps back, giving us privacy while still remaining close enough to intervene if needed. She slips a cell phone into her palm, tapping away quickly.

Victoria stops in front of me. “Emma.” Her lips lift in a smile, but as with the old cliché, it doesn’t reach her eyes. Not really.