Page 73 of Sinful Obsession
He’d pushed me away, but part of me wondered if he’d regret it, if he’d come searching. For now, I was free—and terrified. I closed my eyes, hand on my belly, whispering to my baby, “We’ll make it. Somehow.”
Sleep came fitfully, dreams haunted by endless seas.
Chapter 12
CHARLOTTE
Six years later, I had been transformed in ways I never imagined.
Moscow had become my sanctuary, a city of stark winters, far from the blood-soaked shadows of New York.
I’d bought a cozy apartment in the Arbat district with part of the fortune from Cassian’s card—a two-bedroom haven with high ceilings, wooden floors that creaked underfoot, and large windows overlooking bustling streets lined with historic buildings.
The money sat mostly untouched in my account, a silent reminder of the man I’d left behind, but I’d chosen to work anyway.
At the prestigious fine art company,Aurora Designs.
I specialized in bespoke fashion, particularly wedding gowns and evening wear.
Starting as a junior designer, I’d climbed the ranks through sheer determination, my sketches praised for their intricate details and emotional depth.
Mentally, I was stronger, no longer the scared woman fleeing a mafia empire; physically, I’d filled out a bit with age and motherhood, my body softer, my confidence hard-earned.
Work gave me purpose, a sense of accomplishment beyond survival. I wasn’t just existing—I was thriving, for myself and my twins.
That morning, I was in the kids’ shared bedroom, stripping the colorful dinosaur-print bedsheets from Asher’s bed and replacing them with fresh ones scented with lavender detergent.
The room was a chaos of toys—stuffed animals piled in corners, drawings taped to the walls, a faint smell of crayons lingering in the air.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting warm patterns on the rug, and I hummed softly, trying to shake off the restlessness that had plagued me lately.
The door creaked open, and my five-year-old daughter, Aria, shuffled in, her curly brown hair tousled from play, her big blue eyes—exact replicas of Cassian’s—wide with indignation.
She clutched a crayon in one chubby hand, her pink dress rumpled. “Mommy, Asher is at it again! He refuses to share his glitter pencil with me. The special one with the sparkly stars!”
I paused mid-tuck, straightening up with a sigh.
Aria was the firecracker of the duo, always dramatic, her words tumbling out in that earnest, slightly lisped way only a five-year-old could manage. “Sweetie, come here,” I said, kneeling to her level. “What happened this time?”
She crossed her arms, pouting her little mouth in a way that made her cheeks puff out adorably. “He said it’s his, and I can’t touch it ’cause I’ll break it. But I just want to draw a princess with sparkles! Mom, just get me mine, and I won’t have to disturb him again.”
I pulled her onto my lap as I sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping my arms around her small frame.
She smelled like strawberries from her shampoo, and her defiance melted a bit as she leaned into me.
“Aria, you don’t need that type of pencil—the fancy glitter one with the metallic tips. The normal ones we have are perfect for your drawings. Remember, we talked about sharing and being patient?”
“No!” she huffed, her voice rising in that stubborn whine, kicking her legs lightly. “I want that type! It’s shiny and makeseverything pretty. Asher’s being mean, Mommy. Please buy it for me? Pretty please?”
Buying the pencil wasn’t the issue—I could afford it a hundred times over.
But those specific glitter pencils, imported from a specialty brand in Germany, were scarce in Moscow.
I’d have to order online, and with shipping delays, it could take months.
“Baby, it’s not about the money,” I explained gently, brushing a curl from her forehead. “Those pencils are hard to find here. Let’s use what we have, okay? And talk to Asher about sharing—nicely.”
Aria crossed her arms tighter, her lower lip jutting out. “But I need it now! It’s not fair. Asher always gets the cool stuff.”
