Page 77 of Sinful Obsession
I shifted back, forcing a professional smile. “I won’t. I’ll have revisions by tomorrow.”
As I left, unease prickled—his stares had intensified lately, too intense, too personal.
But he’d never asked me out, so maybe I was overthinking. And him? Poison through and through—I’d never want a man like that, not after Cassian’s fire.
For five years, I’d focused on the kids, turning down dates from kind men who didn’t care about my single-mom status or my flat chest.
I’d come to accept myself, scars and all, but love? It felt like a distant dream, tainted by betrayal.
Work was my anchor, and as I dove back into designs, I pushed it all aside.
I was still sketching a gown’s bodice, when my phone pinged at noon—lunch break.
I grabbed my purse and headed to the office’s cozy rest area, a small café-style space with mismatched chairs and a view of the street.
I ordered a borscht and rye bread, the steam warming my hands as I sat, but before I could take a second bite, my phone buzzed again. A notification from my CCTV app lit up the screen:Motion detected at front door.
My heart skipped, and I tapped the alert, pulling up the live feed.
A tall figure stood at my doorstep, head lowered, dark coat billowing in the wind.
My breath caught—was that Cassian? It couldn’t be.
How could he find me in Moscow, halfway across the world? But the silhouette, the way he carried himself—broad shoulders, predatory grace—screamedhim.
Panic surged, my spoon clattering to the table, the borscht forgotten.
Had he tracked me after all these years?
The bracelet was gone, the card discarded, but Cassian was a hunter, relentless when he wanted something.
I shoved my chair back, leaving my food half-eaten, and hurried to the office of my boss, Viktor Kuznetsov.
His door was ajar, and I knocked, my hands trembling.
Viktor looked up from his cluttered desk, his pockmarked face and too-small eyes giving him that brutish look I’d come to tolerate. “Charlotte, what’s wrong?” he asked, his Russian accent thick, his gaze lingering too long on my face.
“Someone’s at my gate,” I said, my voice tight. “I need to see who it is—might have to call the cops. Can I step out for a few minutes? I’ll be back in thirty.”
He glanced at his watch, reclining slightly in his chair. “If it’s that serious, I’m driving you.”
“I can drive myself,” I said quickly, stepping back. “Please, just let me go.”
“I was heading your way anyway,” he insisted, standing and grabbing his coat with a casualness that didn’t match his words. “We can go together, no?”
I hesitated, knowing Viktor’s stubborn streak.
His offers of help always felt laced with something else—those lingering stares, the way he stood too close. But time was ticking, and I needed to get home.
“Fine,” I relented, forcing a nod.
Viktor moved swiftly, tossing papers aside and shrugging on his coat, though his polished demeanor suggested he hadn’t planned on leaving.
It felt like another excuse to get close, and tension tightened across my skin as we walked toward his sleek black Mercedes waiting in the lot.
I slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against my legs, and gripped my phone, the CCTV feed still open, the figure gone from my doorstep.
Viktor drove with a heavy hand, weaving through traffic, his cologne overpowering in the confined space. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, glancing at me. “You look pale.”
