They’d told me her name was Emika Morgan, but prior to this moment, I had no idea what she looked like. The second she realized that I was the man her grandfather had matched her with, she lowered her head, avoiding my gaze.
I thought that she was going to behave now that she knew who I was—certainly the old man must’ve briefed her about me. She should be afraid now more than ever. A sense of triumph and satisfaction washed over me as I watched in her silence.
It felt good to finally shut her up without having to try so hard. All of a sudden, all that attitude and sass were nowhere to be found. Of course she couldn’t help composing herself in the presence of Adrik Tarasov.
Knowing who I was had humbled her, and she dared not speak to me in that manner anymore. I was going to her husband in a short while, and she must accord me the respect that I deserved.
Her sudden silence was more satisfying than I cared to admit. At least she knew her place. I could work with that. If she maintained this same energy, quiet and obedient, this would go a lot more smoothly than I planned.
A waitress arrived with the meal I ordered for both of us, and while she served our table, a thought crossed my mind. If this was indeed Emika Morgan, granddaughter to Richard Beaumont, why the hell was she driving a deadbeat car?
There was nothing about her that screamed luxury, nothing at all. She looked like an ordinary girl from an ordinary family. Why? Why wasn’t she a reflection of her billionaire grandfather?
She wore a cheap perfume, although the fragrance wasn’t all that bad. Her purse and jewelry seemed like something bought from a local store, and even her outfit was modest. Maybe too modest considering the family she hailed from.
She was wearing a black pencil skirt, a fine brown flowered blouse, and a pair of flats. She had no makeup on, just a shade of pink painted perfectly on her lips. Her dark auburn hair was tied back into a neat bun, her brown doe eyes sparkling with something I’d yet to name.
Her face was delicate with high cheekbones and no artificial lashes. This young woman came as she was, natural and unbothered. Even her nails were undone, bitten in a way that betrayed the stress behind her composed exterior.
Did she not know who she was coming to hang out with?
I should be ashamed to be seen with her.
But I wasn’t. Because despite her cheap clothes and poor sense of fashion, Emika carried herself with a strange kind of composure and an admirable confidence.
Although I was still puzzled by why she looked so ordinary, I decided not to pry. Perhaps time would tell.
The sound of wine pouring into a glass caught my attention, bringing me back to the present. The waitress had just finished serving my red wine and was about to pour some into Emika’s glass.
“No, thank you,” she said to the waitress, her lips curling into a curt smile.
The waitress nodded and then quietly dematerialized.
I fixed my gaze on Emika, and this time, she didn’t look away. “Your grandfather said you were beautiful,” I began,fingers clutching my cutlery. “He didn’t say anything about you being a spoiled little brat.”
“Shocker!” she shot back. “He must’ve forgotten to mention that you’re arrogant and so full of yourself.”
Her words were sharp like a blade slicing through my ego. I raised my brows, surprised by her response because just a moment ago, I’d been sure that she was afraid of me. Clearly, she wasn’t.
“That’s ironic coming from you,” I said, my voice soft and gentle.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. The ‘uncultured’ and ‘unmannered’ woman who, by the way, is about to be your wife.” Her tone was laced with sheer defiance and a hint of mockery.
I paused, my face twisting into a faint scowl. “I have a reputation for taming wild beasts.”
“And I have a reputation for biting back,” she cut in smoothly. “So you might wanna keep your fingers and your ego out of the cage if you plan to tame this ‘wild beast.’” She air-quoted the phrase.
Emika Morgan was obviously not one of the regular girls in Chicago. This one carried a kind of fire I’d only seen in survivors and warriors. Her defiance and fiery spirit were what set her apart from the other girls.
She was different: wild, stubborn, but also composed when she wanted to be. Emika wasn’t someone who let herself be bullied or told what to do. She had a mind of her own and didn’t seem like she was the type to easily bend to anyone. Which made me wonder why she agreed to this marriage.
Emika wasn’t just a pretty face; she was a fighter and a puzzle I’d yet to solve.
I reached for my glass and took a sip. “This marriage won’t be a fairytale.”
“Even a blind man can see that,” she shot back, her eyes pinned on me. “Look, Mr. Tarasov, I’m gonna be honest with you,” she leaned in. “I don’t like this. I don’t want this—I hate it. But I just recently learned that we don’t always get what we want in life.”
I watched, listened in silence.
