Page 95 of The Wrong Brother

Her eyebrows lift immediately. “The wedding?”

“Yes.”

“You came all the way to Colorado to terrorize your brother.”

“I already accomplished that part.”

Emma studies me for a second, visibly surprised. “You seriously don’t want to watch? You don’t have some kind of plot to object?”

There’s an edge of desperation to her question, subtle, a look in her eyes that’s been there for a few days now.

What aren’t you telling me, Emma?

But I’m too afraid to ask. Instead, I glance toward the cathedral again where Andrei’s allies and wealthy donors are already gathering beneath the gorgeous stained glass. The thought of sitting quietly while he marries this woman suddenly fills me with exhaustion more than rage.

“No,” I admit.

A small pause follows. Then Emma says softly, “Okay.”

Relief moves through me so quickly it almost feels unfamiliar.

I guide her away from the crowd before anyone notices our absence, steering her down one of the quieter garden paths winding behind the church grounds. The noise of the cocktail party fades gradually behind us until only distant music and murmured conversation remain beneath the rustling trees.

Colorado autumn lingers everywhere now. The gardens are overflowing with late roses, petals dancing on the breeze, and ivy beginning to darken at the edges, gold leaves scattered across stone walkways. Water spills softly into the basin of an ancient fountain, the sound somehow delicate.

Emma slows beside the fountain.

“It’s beautiful back here.”

I look at her instead of the gardens.

The realization lands suddenly and with irritating force that I have spent years surrounding myself with beautiful things: luxury fabrics, architecture, art, women carefully selected for elegance. None of it has ever unsettled me the way Emma does, standing quietly beneath a deepening afternoon sky.

Because Emma’s beauty is alive.

Messy. Emotional. Unpredictable.

Real, even if she’s been hiding things from me.

She turns toward me slowly, curls stirring lightly in the cool breeze. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m allowed. It’s in the contract.”

It’s not; we both know that. Her cheeks flush faintly.

God.

I step closer before thinking better of it, drawn toward her warmth like something starving. My hand slides carefully along her jaw, thumb brushing softly beneath her cheekbone while the fountain water murmurs quietly beside us.

Emma’s breath catches. For one suspended moment, revenge disappears entirely.

No Andrei. No politics. No empire waiting back in California.

Only her.