Page 78 of The Wrong Brother

“Then why am I in these pictures? Isn’t this a little…permanent?”

“Because I wanted you here.”

“That’s not an answer.”

A faint smirk touches his mouth, barely visible. “It’s the only one you’re getting, Emma.”

I glare at the side of his face. “Rus.”

Now he looks at me.Reallylooks.

Ever since the fight with Andrei, something shifted. Ruslan has become quieter, sharper around the edges. More watchful. I catch him studying me sometimes with an expression I can’t decipher before he immediately looks away again.

Like he’s trying to solve something.

Or trying not to.

It’s making me anxious.

I lower my voice further. “If you wanted me gone tomorrow, I’d disappear.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes. The photographer announces that we’re done, and the studio buzzes around us again, people moving props and shifting hangers on racks.

“You think I would do that?” he asks, a harsh edge to his voice.

“I think you could. You are—” I almost say,a Pakhan,but catch myself. Everyone in this room knows him as Russell Smith, fashion mogul.

Ruslan studies me for a long moment before speaking softly.

“You are in these photographs because I wanted people to see you beside me.”

My throat tightens unexpectedly.

“That’s still not an explanation.”

“No,” he murmurs. “It’s not.” Before I can press further, he steps back, and two women take over, shepherding me toward a makeshift changing room.

“What?” I ask, but it becomes clear that this is an outfit change. Only when I step back out, Rus doesn’t join me in the frame. I stare at him in confusion, suddenly feeling self-conscious in the floral satin pantsuit that leaves my shoulders bare and my breasts hiked up.

“Mrs. Smith! Here,” the photographer calls, drawing my attention.

“It’s Pierce,” I choke out, feeling a flush warm my cheekbones. The man lifts a brow, looking at me over the top of the camera.

“Miss Pierce. I apologize; I assumed. You two look so dangerously in love.”

My stomach twists.

Because somehow, despite everything wrong with this situation, part of me understands exactly why people would believe it.

* * *

A makeup artist dabs more shimmer along my collarbone while the photographer reviews shots on a nearby monitor. Across the studio, assistants rearrange lighting equipment around a velvet chaise lounge someone apparently decided looks “editorial.”

Fashion people are insane.

I catch sight of a magazine sitting abandoned near one of the mirrors and immediately regret it. The tabloid headline splashed across the front practically screams at me.

SMIRNOV BROTHERS BRAWL AT UPSCALE DENVER RESTAURANT.