The Drake Diamonds. Teri Wilson

missed him.

      She missed him with an intensity that frightened her.

      So the blurry vision really should have come as no surprise as she sat across from Artem in the Drake Diamonds conference room and listened to his brother’s horrifying idea for promoting her jewelry collection.

      Dalton wanted her to dance. On television.

      “No,” Artem said. Calmly. Quietly. But the underlying lethality in his tone was impossible to ignore.

      “I beg your pardon?” Dalton said, resting his hands on the conference table.

      “You heard me.”

      Dalton cast a tense smile in Ophelia’s direction. “I think the choice is Ophelia’s, Artem.”

      Ophelia cleared her throat. She suddenly felt invisible, which should have been a relief. But there was something strangely disconcerting about the way Artem studiously avoided her gaze, even as he came to her rescue.

      Why was he doing this, even after she’d refused to take his calls or see him? She didn’t know, and thinking about it made her heart hurt.

      “That’s where you’re wrong, brother. The choice isn’t hers to make because there is no choice. We’re not doing the campaign. We’re not resetting the Drake Diamond. It’s going up for auction three weeks from today.”

      Wait. What?

      Dalton let out a ragged sigh. “Tell me the contract hasn’t been signed. Tell me it’s not too late to undo this.”

      Artem shrugged as if they were discussing something as banal as what to order for lunch rather than a priceless gem that glittered with family history. Both his and hers. “The papers are on my desk awaiting my signature, but I’m not changing my mind. Ophelia will not wear your tiara, and neither will she dance in your ad campaign.”

      Silence fell over the room, so thick that Ophelia could hardly breathe.

      She shook her head and managed to utter a single syllable. “Don’t.”

      “Don’t?” Artem turned stormy eyes on her. “Are you telling me you actually want to go along with this marketing strategy?”

      “That’s not what I’m saying at all.” She slid her gaze to Dalton. “Dalton, I’m sorry. I can’t. Won’t, actually.”

      She’d needed to say it herself. The truth of the matter was she didn’t need Artem to fight her battles. She could—and should—be fighting them herself.

      She might be on the brink of a relapse, but she could still speak for herself and make her own decisions. Besides, Artem wouldn’t always be there to take her side, would he? In fact, she couldn’t figure out why in the world he was trying to protect her now. Other than the obvious—he felt sorry for her. Pity was the absolute last thing she wanted from him.

      Exactly what do you want from him?

      So many things, she realized, as a lump formed in her throat. Maybe even love.

      Stop.

      She couldn’t allow herself to think that way. Despite his wealth and power, the man had obviously had a tumultuous emotional life. Could she really expect him to take on a wife who would certainly end up a burden?

      Wife? Wife? Since when had she allowed herself to even fantasize about marriage? She needed to have her head examined.

      “I don’t understand.” Dalton frowned.

      “There’s nothing to understand. You heard Miss Rose. She isn’t dancing, and the diamond is going up for auction. Case closed.” Artem stood and buttoned his suit jacket, signaling the meeting was over.

      How was everything happening so fast?

      “Wait,” Ophelia said.

      She’d lost her family. And her health. And ballet.

      And she’d never have Artem, the only man she’d ever wanted.

      But she would not lose the Drake Diamond. She knew Artem would never understand. How could he? But that diamond—that rock, as he so frequently called it—was her only remaining connection to her family.

      She would never marry. Never have children. Once she was gone, the Baronova name would be nothing more than a memory. She could live with that. She could. But that knowledge would be so much easier to swallow if only something solid, something real, remained. A memory captured in the glittering facets of a priceless jewel. A jewel that generations of people would come to see. People would come and look at that diamond, and they would remember her family.

      The Baronovas had lived. They’d lived, and they’d mattered.

      “Please, Artem.” Her voice broke as she said his name. She was vaguely aware of Dalton watching her with a curious expression, but she didn’t care. “Don’t sell the diamond. Please.”

      Her eyes never left Artem’s, despite the fact that being this close to him and pretending the memory of their night together didn’t haunt her with every breath she took was next to impossible. She’d had no idea how difficult it would be to see him in this context. To sit a chaste distance apart when she longed for his touch. To see the indifference in his gaze when she could all but still feel him moving inside her. It was probably the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life apart from hearing her diagnosis. Maybe even worse.

      Because if she’d only taken his calls or answered the door when he’d pounded on it, he wouldn’t be looking at her like that, would he? He wouldn’t be so angry he couldn’t look her in the eye.

      “I’m sorry, Miss Rose.” But he didn’t sound sorry at all.

      Then he focused on the floor, as if she was the last person in the world he wanted to see. In that heartbreaking moment, Ophelia understood that pity wasn’t the worst thing she could have found in his gaze, after all.

      “My mind is made up. This meeting is adjourned.”