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ADRIK
Stefan strolls into my office with a pair of paper coffee cups in his hands.
“Frappuccino?” he says, offering me one.
I roll my eyes. “Do I look like the kind of man who drinks frappuccinos, Stefan?”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself. You’re missing out. The caramel syrup is to die for.” He glances up at me to see my knee bouncing. “Maybe you don’t need the caffeine, anyway. You jittery about the big day? Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.”
I level a glare at him. “Did you come here for a purpose other than to annoy me?”
He drops down into the chair opposite my desk and kicks his feet up. “The maids are all in a tizzy about you sending Emery some breakfast this morning. They talk about the two of you like a soap opera unfolding before their very eyes."
“They ought to mind their fucking business,” I mutter.
“Don’t duck the question. Did you or did you not send her breakfast?” he asks. “The hunger strike is over?”
“It was dry toast and eggs. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
If Emery wants hot food with flavor, she’s going to have to do a lot more than play her part for an hour with Diane.
Stefan smiles. “I’m just glad to see you two crazy kids working it out. Y’know, I think you’ll make it.”
He is in rare form today. When he gets like this, it's best to ignore him. The only other option is strangling him, and unfortunately for me, he’s too useful for that.
I turn back to the monitors. Isabella is in Emery’s room showing her the keyboard she uses for her tutoring lessons. Emery is laying on the edge of the bed by Isabella’s wheelchair, grinning and nodding along. It’s obvious the two of them are happy to spend time together again.
But their reunion was all for Isabella’s sake. Emery’s happiness is incidental.
“When am I supposed to go get Izzy?” Stefan asks.
I look back at him. “Does Isabella know you call her that?”
“Oh yeah,” Stefan says. “I got a big talking to about how that was her nickname from when she was little. She’s all grown up now and I’m supposed to call her Isabella. But I told her I’m gonna call her whatever I want.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“She called me ‘Steffy.’”
I burst out laughing. “That tracks.”
Stefan shrugs. “Like mother, like daughter, I guess.”
When I turn back to the monitors, I see a white van coming up the driveway. I snap at my lieutenant. “That’s your cue. Go get Isabella. Keep her busy for the afternoon.”
Stefan gives me a salute and heads out the door while I watch the driveway feed. An older woman climbs out of the van and opens the back doors. Inside, I can make out two large racks loaded down with clothes.
I can’t help but smile.
Emery is about to pitch a fucking fit.
* * *
When I get to her room, she’s laying on her bed, smiling up at the ceiling. The smile drops dead when she sees me.
“What do you want?” she scowls.
I stand silently in the doorway as two racks loaded down with wedding dresses roll past me.
Emery sits up, eyes wide when she sees what it is. “What the fuck is this?”
I dismiss the maids with a nod. They scurry out, closing the door behind them.
“Your dress fitting,” I explain. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“My what?” She walks over to the racks, but keeps her distance. As if she’ll combust at the slightest brush of white lace against her skin.
“Unless you want to get married naked, you need to pick a dress,” I say. “Actually, I need to pick a dress for you. And now that I say it, ‘naked’ doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.”
She glares at me. “Isn’t it bad luck? Seeing the dress before the wedding day.”
“Worse luck than stabbing the groom before the wedding day?”
For once, she doesn’t have a ready retort to that.
“That’s what I thought.” I brush past her, grab an armful of dresses off the rack, and toss them on the bed. “Try those first.”
Emery narrows her green eyes and slowly crosses her arms. “If I have to get married to you, then the least you can do is—”
I cross the room in three strides and seize her jaw, forcing her eyes to mine. “The least I can do? I’ve done the most. For you and your daughter,” I spit. “Isabella is still in the medical trial. Because of me. You are free of Malcolm Waters. Because of me.”
She tries to pull her jaw away, but I grip it tighter. Her eyes water.
It’s not pain that’s doing that—it’s fear.
About damn time.
“You don’t have to marry me, Emery Montague,” I say, leaning in. “You get to marry me. I’m doing you a fucking favor. It’s time you started acting like it.”
Her green eyes are nuclear, boiling with anger. But she grits her teeth and says nothing.
After a few seconds, I release her jaw. After a few more, she uncrosses her arms and shivers.
"Can you at least give me privacy to change?"
Emery plays like she's innocent. Like she's some simple woman just trying to make it by. But she knows what she's doing. You don't accidentally end up as the arm candy of a senator who has the power to get your daughter the medication she needs. And it was no accident that she found her way into my office the night of the gala, either.
Emery knows how to play this game better than she lets on.
But she’s never played it against me. I play to win.
I walk past her and sit on the edge of the bed.
She sighs. "That's a no, then?"
"That's a 'Hurry the fuck up; I don't have all day,'" I say.
Her nostrils flare, but she slowly starts peeling off her pajamas. The shorts slip down her smooth legs, puddling around her feet. Her back arches as she takes off her top.
My dick throbs. Fuck, she's beautiful.
"Panties, too."
She stiffens and looks up at me. "Why? I don't need to be naked for a dress fitting."
"I'm saying you do. Therefore, you do."
She wants to argue, but she swallows it down. She lets out a shaky breath and steps out of her panties. Her fingers shake as she slides off her bra.
My cock is a steel rod between my legs. I'm debating whether fucking her on top of her future wedding dress would make our bad luck better or worse when the door opens.
"Knock, knock,” the woman says, a little unnecessarily at this point.
Emery yelps and covers herself as a middle-aged woman comes in.
"I'm not scared of a little nudity. You shouldn't be, either," Julia reprimands. She turns to me with a smile. "It's been too long, Mr. Tasarov."
"Adrik," I tell her.
Julia shakes her bottle blonde head. "When people spend as much money as you do on my clothes, they get formal titles."
Emery makes a choking sound. When we turn to her, she's flushed and trying to cover herself. "Can I put some clothes on?"
"Not yet," Julia tuts. "I need to measure you."
"While I'm naked? Is that really necessary?"
"Julia knows what she's doing,” I cut in.
"My clothes are not something you simply ‘put on.’ They are something you live in," Julia says with a practiced flourish of her hand. "I want this wedding gown to be molded to your shape. I want people to think you were born in it."
Emery flinches as Julia wraps a measuring tape around her chest, the thin band covering her nipples. “I mean, it’s just a dress."
Oh, shit.
Julia drops the tape measure like it bit her and stares at Emery. “Excuse me?”
Emery shrugs. “It’s just a dress, right? I don’t think it needs to be—”
“There is nothing just about clothes,” Julia snaps. “We trust clothes to cover our bodies, to shield us from the elements, to express our inner selves and define us. Clothes can put us at ease or lift us to new heights. And on your wedding day, nothing is more important than the dress.”
“I think the marriage certificate would disagree, but whatever,” Emery mumbles.
Julia ignores her and keeps going. “I’ve worked with the most famous models in the world. Powerful men have dropped to their knees and cried at the sight of the clothes I design. Lovers have joined. Babies have been born. My designs play a role in the flourishing of the human race.”
