Three days of silence felt like an eternity. Emma had perfected the art of avoidance—leaving Franklin's mansion before Alek's scheduled visits, screening his calls, responding to texts with clinical one-word answers.
"This is ridiculous," Natasha declared, dropping a newspaper on the breakfast table. The gossip section featured the same restaurant photos, now with expanded speculation about the Mitchell-Volkov marriage. "You need to talk to him."
"I'm busy," Emma replied, not looking up from her laptop where she reviewed team marketing proposals.
"You're hiding," Natasha countered. "And my brother is miserable. He's called me six times asking what you're saying about him."
"What am I supposed to say?" Emma finally met her sister-in-law's gaze. "That I found out about his secret dinner with his ex-fiancée from Jack Reynolds? That those photos look exactly like what Jack implied—history repeating itself?"
Natasha pulled out a chair, sitting across from Emma. "Do you honestly believe Ale
