Because of Emily, he'd finally understood that family meant more than pride.
Because of Emily, he'd gone to his brother with the truth, believing that this time things could be different.
He'd lost it all. Any hope of redemption and forgiveness was gone.
He'd laid everything on the line, revealed that he was the face behind RG Holdings. Revealed his need to make amends for their father's memory. When he'd finished his speech, he'd extended a hand. 'So what do you say?' he'd said. 'Are you prepared to draw a line under the past?'
Marat had stared at his hand before his thin lips had formed into a sneer. He'd pushed his chair back and got to his feet. 'I told you two years ago that I wouldn't sell the business to you. I would rather it went to the dogs than fall into your hands.'
How had he ever allowed himself to think that this time things might be different?
There had been no point in prolonging the meeting. He knew Marat, knew the entrenched look in his eyes. Pascha's reasoning had been disregarded. To try any more would have been akin to trying to reason with a toddler. 'I'm sorry you feel that way. I wish you luck in finding another investor.'
He hadn't reached the door when Marat had pounced, pinning him to the wall. 'You,' he'd spat. 'It was always about you. No money for anything, not even the basics, because it all went on keeping you alive, the cuckoo in the nest who didn't belong there.' He'd abruptly let go and stepped back, throwing his hands in the air. 'And look at you now-rich and handsome. All that chemotherapy didn't even stunt your growth. You got everything.' His eyes had glittered with malice. 'But you didn't get Plushenko's. And you never will.'
Pascha had held onto his temper by the skin of his teeth. He was almost a foot taller than his adopted brother and, with around ninety-five per cent more muscle mass, all it would have taken was one punch to floor him and curb his cruel mouth.
Instead, he'd straightened his tie, dusted his arms down and said, 'It was never about Plushenko's. It was about family. Goodbye, Marat.' He'd left the office, striding past the waiting room where the lawyers were holed up, through the foyer and out into the cold St. Petersburg air.
He felt it now, as raw as if he were still in that conference room with his brother.
'The Plushenko deal is dead. It's over.'
Ignoring the ashen pallor of Emily's skin, he kicked his chair back and stormed over to stand before her. 'Plushenko's was built from my father's sweat and my mother's tears and now it's gone. Marat's hell-bent on destroying our father's legacy and there's nothing I can do to stop him.'
'You told him the truth?' she asked, her voice a choked whisper.
'Yes, I told him the truth. He threw my offer back in my face.'
Marat hadn't wanted anything to do with the cuckoo in the nest.
Why had he ever been foolish enough to believe otherwise?
'You wonder why I can't bear to look at you? You have everything-a family who loves you. You made me believe I could have that too. You gave me hope that Marat would accept me. You made it sound so easy. It was all a lie, a big, damnable lie, and every time I look at your face all I see is what could have been!'
Because of Emily, and that strange alchemy she had spread over him that had re-awoken his desire for a family of his own, everything had blown up in his face.
The path to his mother's forgiveness had been detonated. And that was the worst part about it.
'I'm sorry it didn't work out the way you hoped it would,' Emily said, breathing heavily, her face no longer pale, angry colour staining her cheeks. 'But at least you can look at yourself in the mirror and say that you tried, that you fought for a relationship with Marat.'
'It's destroyed everything. What hope is there for my mother to believe in me now?'
'Oh, get over yourself and stop being so defeatist!' Her fury seemed to make her expand before his eyes. 'As if presenting her with the gift of Plushenko's would magically have made things better between you-it hardly worked when you bought an island in her name, did it? Give her the one thing she hasn't got-her son. You. If I can love a stubborn fool like you, then I'm damn sure your mother can as well. She is not Marat. If you allow your stupid pride to kill your future with her, you have no one to blame but yourself.'
Leaving him standing there, his head spinning, she turned on her heel, pushed the door open and strode out, her head held high.
She didn't look back.
* * *
The miniature castle Pascha's mother called home was a world away from the small, dark house he'd been raised in. No flickering lights, no heaters where the oil level was checked with an anxious look, always quickly disguised if her young son happened to be watching her.
If Plushenko's shares continued to drop and its revenue continued to plummet, this beautiful home, with its bright, spacious rooms and indoor swimming pool, in theory would have to be sold.
Whatever the outcome of this meeting with his mother, he would ensure this home remained hers. He would buy her a dozen homes if she let him.
He'd arrived unannounced but she hadn't looked surprised to see him at her door. She'd invited him in with hardly a murmur.
Sitting on the sofa in the immaculate living room while she fetched them refreshments, his eye was caught by a photo above the fireplace of his mother and Andrei's wedding day. Everything about them looked cheap, from their wedding clothes to the cut of their hair.
The love shining between them, though, was more valuable than any Plushenko diamond.
He rose as his mother came through the door carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits.
'You're looking well,' he said after she'd taken the seat across from him. There was nothing cheap about his mother these days. Her salt-and-pepper hair had been expertly coloured a pale blonde, her calloused hands smooth from regular manicures.
'Thank you,' she said, with a warmer smile than he'd been expecting. 'You're looking good yourself.'
After a few minutes of small talk while they caught up on each other's lives, she rose to sit beside him. She patted his thigh. 'I know about you trying to buy Plushenko's from Marat.'
He stiffened.
It was the first time his mother had touched him in three years, since slapping him on his face after Andrei's funeral.
And no wonder that she had. In his arrogance, he'd thought she would be happy with the return of her prodigal son, that the promise of an island in her name would be enough to wipe out five years of hurt.
'I also know Marat...declined your offer. But that was to be expected.' She gave a sad smile that didn't reach her eyes. 'That boy always did have a problem with you. He was jealous.'
'Jealous of what?'
'Jealous of Andrei's love for you. Angry that he had to share his father.'
Emily had said the same thing.
She'd also said not to allow his pride-his stupid pride-to kill his future with his mother.
It had taken him two long, dark weeks to see how right she was.
Pascha took a deep breath. 'I'm sorry for cutting you and Papa out of my life all those years ago. I'm sorry for changing my surname out of spite. I'm sorry for rejecting all of your and Papa's attempts to reconcile with me, and I'm sorry Papa died thinking I didn't love him.'
'He knew you loved him.' Her voice was sad. 'You were his little shadow. He used to laugh and say if you could fit in his pocket to be carried around then you would. He was so proud that you wanted to be involved in the jewellery business with him. He always said that, without your drive, Plushenko's would have stayed a little firm floating along keeping its head above water.'
She reached out a hand to cup his cheek. 'You're not the only one to have regrets, Pascha. Andrei had them too. He blamed himself for your leaving, for forcing Marat onto the board against your wishes. And I regret spurning you after the funeral-my only excuse is that I was grieving. But I have no excuse for not reaching out to you since.' Her eyes flickered with emotion. 'I think you must have inherited your pride and stubbornness from me. You're my son and I love you. I've always loved you. Andrei loved you too.'
She must have caught something in his eyes, because she continued, 'What he said about Marat being his blood-he didn't mean it to be taken that that made Marat more important than you. He meant that Marat was as important-that you were both his sons. He couldn't choose between you. He never gave a thought that you were not of his blood-to him you were his son and he loved you as fiercely as if you were.'