have been fine with that. He should have been relieved. He didn’t want a relationship. Never had. He didn’t want marriage or, God forbid, children. His own childhood had been messed up enough to turn him off the idea for life. Even if he did want a relationship, she was still his employee. And Artem was not his father, recent behavior notwithstanding.
But sitting an arm’s length away from Ophelia right now felt like torture. He felt anything but fine.
“I’d like to propose a new marketing campaign for the ballerina collection now that certain, ah, facts have come to light.” Dalton nodded.
So he was going right in for the kill, was he? Artem’s fists clenched even tighter.
“A new marketing campaign?” Ophelia’s eyes went wide, and the panic Artem saw in their sapphire depths took the edge off his anger and softened it a bit. Changed it to something that felt more like sorrow. Deep, soul-shaking sorrow.
“Yes. I’m thinking a print campaign. Artful black-and-white shots, perhaps even a few television commercials, featuring you, of course.”
“Me?” She swallowed, and Artem traced the movement up and down the slender column of her throat.
For a moment, he was transfixed. Caught in a memory of his mouth moving down Ophelia’s neck. In his mind, he heard the soft shudder of a moan. He felt the tremulous beat of her pulse beneath his tongue. He saw a sparkling flash of diamonds against porcelain skin. Then he blinked, and he was back in the conference room, with Ophelia appraising him coolly from the opposite side of the table.
If only Dalton weren’t present. Artem would tell her exactly how enraged he felt about being ghosted. Or maybe he’d simply lay her down on the smooth oak surface of the table and use his mouth on her until she shattered.
Perhaps he’d do both those things.
But Dalton was most definitely there, and he was talking again. Going on about advertisements in the Sunday Times and a special catalog for the holidays. “You’ll wear ballet shoes, of course. And a tutu.”
Finally, finally, Ophelia looked at Artem. Really looked at him. If he’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of brokenness in her gaze before he’d known about her MS, it would have been unmistakable now. Somewhere in the sapphire depths of her gaze, he saw a plea. Someone needed to put a stop to what was happening.
The things Dalton was proposing were out of the question. How could his brother fail to understand that dressing the part of what she could no longer be would kill Ophelia? Artem could almost hear the sound of her heart breaking.
He cleared his throat. “Dalton...”
But his brother wasn’t about to be dissuaded so easily. Clearly, he’d been mulling over new marketing strategies all weekend. “You’ll wear the Drake Diamond, of course. I’d like to get it reset in your tiara design as soon as possible. You’ll be the face of Drake Diamonds. Your image will be on every bus and in every subway station in New York. Possibly even a billboard in Times Square. Now I know you haven’t performed in a while, but if you could dance for just a bit, just long enough to tape a commercial segment, we’d be golden.”
Artem couldn’t believe his ears. Now Dalton was asking Ophelia to dance? No. Just no. Ballet was special to her. Far too special to be exploited, even if it meant saving Drake Diamonds. Maybe Dalton wasn’t capable of understanding just what it meant to her, since he’d never seen her dance. But Artem had.
He knew. He knew what it felt like to go breathless at the sight of her arabesque. He knew how just the sight of her arched foot could cause a man to ache with longing. Artem would carry that knowledge to his grave.
And Dalton expected her to dance for him? In a television commercial, of all things?
Ophelia would never agree to it. Never. Even if she did, Artem wouldn’t let her.
Over his dead fucking body.
* * *
Ophelia did her best to look at Dalton and focus on what he was saying, as ludicrous and terrifying as it was, but he was beginning to look a bit blurry around the edges.
Not now. Please not now.
She hadn’t even managed to get back to her own apartment on Saturday morning before her MS symptoms began to make themselves felt. She’d taken a cab rather than the subway, afraid of being spotted in public in her ball gown from the night before. The same ball gown she was wearing on the front page of the morning newspaper. As she’d sat in the backseat of the taxi, biting her lip and staring at the snow swirling out the window while she’d tried not to cry, she’d felt a strange numbness creeping over her.
It had started with her fingertips. Just a slight tingling sensation, barely noticeable at first. She’d stared down at her hands, clutching the pointe shoes she’d almost left behind, and realized she was shaking. That’s when she’d known.
She’d been unable to stop the tears when she realized she’d become symptomatic. Fate hadn’t exactly been kind to her lately, but this seemed impossibly cruel. Too cruel to believe. Her lips had still been swollen from Artem’s kisses, her body still warm from his bed. Why did it have to happen then? Why?
Logically, she knew the answer. Stress.
The doctors had been clear in the beginning—stress could make her condition worse. Even a perfectly healthy body responded to stress, and as Ophelia was only too aware, her body was neither perfect nor healthy. Her medical team had counseled her to build a life for herself that was as stress-free as possible, which was why she’d begun volunteering at the animal shelter. And one of the multitude of reasons why she’d never considered dating. Or even contemplated the luxury of falling in love.
She’d slipped. Once. Only once.
For a single night, she’d forgotten she was sick. She’d allowed herself to live. Really live. And now her life, her secrets, everything she held dear, was front-page news. Something to read about over morning coffee. All of that would have been stressful enough without the added heartbreak of knowing that Artem would see those words and that he’d never look at her the same way again. Never see her with eyes brimming with desire rather than pity.
It was no wonder her fingertips had gone numb. No wonder she’d fallen down when she’d exited the cab. No wonder the tingling sensation had only gotten worse when Artem had shown up at her apartment and practically beaten down the door, while she’d curled in the fetal position on the sofa with Jewel’s tiny, furry form pressed to her chest.
She’d wished then that the numbness would overtake her completely. That it would spread from her fingers and toes, up her arms and legs, until it reached her heart. She wished she could stop feeling what she felt for him.
She 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