Sinful Obsession: Chapter 12

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 makes everything 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.”

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed on the nightstand, a strange number flashing on the screen—no name, just digits.

It could be from the company, a new client inquiring about a design, or perhaps a supplier. I picked it up, switching to my professional tone. “Good afternoon, this is Charlotte,” I greeted in Russian, my accent polished from years of immersion.

“Charlotte,” came the voice on the other end, deep and commanding, laced with that familiar intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

Cassian. My heart stopped, the world tilting.

“Who is that, Mommy?” Aria asked, tilting her head curiously, her defiance forgotten for a moment.

“Baby, please wait for me outside,” I said, my voice strained as I helped her off my lap and guided her to the door.

She pouted but obeyed, her little feet padding away.

I slammed the door shut behind her, leaning against it as my knees weakened.

Hearing his voice after six years—it did something to me, a tingle in my stomach I hated, a pull I’d tried so hard to sever.

Tears burned my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them fall. Not for him.

“What do you want?” I asked, forcing my voice to be emotionless, even as my insides unraveled.

“Tell me where you are right now, Charlotte,” he demanded, urgent and possessive, like no time had passed. “And that man better leave before I get there.”

“What man?” I snapped, confusion mixing with anger.

“That man you’re calling ‘baby,’” he growled, jealousy dripping from every word. “How can you move on, Charlotte? After everything?”

“Are you kidding me?” I laughed, bitter and sharp, wiping away a traitorous tear. “How can I move on after six years? You’ve truly lost your mind. Why are you calling? How did you even get this number?”

He hung up without another word, the line going dead.

Rage surged through me, and I smashed the phone against the floor, the screen cracking with a satisfying shatter.

How dare he?

Accusing me of moving on when he’d been the one to shove me out of his life like garbage.

Six years—long enough to build walls, to forget the way his touch set me on fire.

But one call, and it all cracked.

And how had he gotten my number? I’d ditched my old line the moment I landed in Moscow, starting fresh with a new SIM, untraceable. Or so I thought.

I took a deep breath, composing myself before stepping out to the living room.

Aria and Asher were on the rug, surrounded by crayons and paper, Asher’s glitter pencil clutched possessively in his small hand.

He looked so much like Cassian—same intense blue eyes, dark hair falling over his forehead, a serious expression that belied his age.

Aria, with her curls and sparkly personality, was my mirror, defiant and full of life. “Okay, you two,” I said, clapping my hands to get their attention. “Let’s play a game. How about tag in the backyard?”

“Yay!” Aria squealed, jumping up, her earlier pout forgotten. Asher nodded, more reserved, but his eyes lit up.

We headed to the small courtyard behind the apartment, a fenced patch of grass with a swing set and flower pots I’d planted last spring.

The sun was warm, birds chirping in the nearby trees. “You’re it, Mommy!” Aria yelled, darting away with a giggle.

I chased them, laughter bubbling up despite the ache in my chest.

Asher was fast, zigzagging with precision, while Aria tripped over her own feet, squealing when I tagged her.

“Got you!” I said, scooping her up and spinning her around. But Asher hogged the swing, refusing to let Aria on. “Asher, share the swing,” I rebuked gently but firmly. “We take turns, remember?”

“But I was here first,” he protested, his voice a mini-version of Cassian’s stubbornness.

“No buts,” I said, kneeling to his level. “Kindness first. Let your sister have a go, or no swing for either of you.”

He grumbled but relented, hopping off.

Aria beamed, climbing on with a triumphant “Thanks, Mommy!”

We played until dusk, their energy boundless, mine fueled by the need to distract from Cassian’s call.

As night fell, we settled on the couch for bedtime stories, the kids in their pajamas, snuggled under a blanket.

“Once upon a time,” I began, weaving a tale of a brave princess and her twin dragons, their eyes wide with wonder. But midway, Asher interrupted, his serious face turning thoughtful.

“Mommy, why don’t we have a daddy?” he asked, his voice small. “At school, all the other kids have daddies picking them up. Like Timur’s dad brings treats, and Sofia’s dad plays soccer with her.”

Aria chimed in, her head tilting. “Yeah, Mommy. Is Daddy really dead? Can we visit his grave? I want to put flowers there, like in the stories.”

The questions hit like a punch, pain blooming in my chest.

I’d told them their father was dead years ago, a gentle lie to shield them from the truth of abandonment.

But they kept asking, their innocence a knife twisting in my heart.

“Sweethearts,” I said, my voice soft, forcing a smile. “Daddy… he’s in a better place. We honor him by being strong and kind, okay? Now, let’s finish the story—the princess needs your help to defeat the dragon!”

I switched back, spinning the tale until Aria’s eyes drooped, her head heavy on my arm.

She dozed off first, her breaths even and peaceful.

I carried her to bed, tucking her under the covers with a kiss on her forehead.

Asher followed, laying beside her. “Goodnight, Mommy,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, my loves,” I whispered, kissing them both, my heart swelling with love.

Back in my room, memories crashed over me like waves.

Cassian sending me away six years ago, his words a dagger: the end of us because of a child he refused to claim.

Who would’ve known I carried twins? If I’d aborted, I’d have lost two sweet souls.

They were the best thing that ever happened to me, my light in the darkness.

But pregnancy had been hell—heavier than usual, the twins pressing on my bladder, my back aching constantly, morning sickness that lasted all day.

Single motherhood was a battlefield: sleepless nights with colic, juggling work and daycare, the loneliness of doctor visits alone.

Delivery day haunted me—my water breaking in the apartment, pain ripping through me as I crawled to the phone, dialing the ambulance with shaking hands.

I’d screamed into the void, no one there to hold my hand, as contractions hit like lightning.

The hospital blur of lights and strangers, pushing for hours until Aria and Asher arrived, tiny and perfect. Cassian could’ve been there, his strength beside me, but he’d chosen disbelief.

I’d confirmed the DNA twice—with the hair sample I’d taken from him.

First, a non-invasive prenatal test while pregnant; second, after birth with cheek swabs. Both results: 99.99% match.

Cassian was their father, but he’d never know the joy of it.

I went to sleep with a sour heart.

Morning came with the usual chaos.

I woke at 6 AM, brewing coffee in the kitchen, the aroma filling the apartment.

“Rise and shine!” I called, entering the kids’ room.

Aria was already up, bouncing on the bed, while Asher buried under the covers.

“Nooo, five more minutes,” Asher mumbled, peeking out with those blue eyes that mirrored Cassian’s so uncannily.

He was the thoughtful one, analytical like his father, always building towers with blocks that never fell.

Aria, vibrant and stubborn, tugged at my hand. “Mommy, I want pancakes! With chocolate chips!”

“Pancakes it is,” I said, helping them dress.

Asher insisted on his favorite blue shirt—“It makes me look strong, like a superhero”—while Aria fought me on her dress. “No, the pink one! The sparkly pink!”

“Aria, the pink one’s in the wash,” I said firmly. “Blue today, or no pancakes.”

She pouted, crossing her arms. “Fine, but tomorrow pink!”

I laughed, tying her shoes. “Deal.”

Asher helped set the table, precise and helpful.

Looking at him felt like staring at a ghost sometimes—the resemblance was uncanny, from the sharp jaw to the serious brow.

Aria was my mini-me, curls and all, but with a fire that burned bright.

Breakfast was a whirlwind—Asher spilling milk, Aria demanding more syrup.

“Enough, Aria,” I had rebuked gently. “Too much sugar makes you hyper.”

We piled into the car, me driving through Moscow’s traffic to their kindergarten.

The kids chattered in fluent Russian with each other—“Smotri, mashina!” Aria exclaimed at a passing truck—but I spoke English to them, preserving that tie to my past. “Use English with Mommy, okay?”

At school, I kissed them goodbye, watching them run inside.

Work at Aurora Designs was a refuge, the office buzzing with sketches and fabric swatches.

My boss, Viktor Kuznetsov—a burly Russian mafia man with ties I’d heard whispered about—called me into his office mid-morning.

His features were harsh: pockmarked skin, narrow eyes set into a wide, commanding face. Yet, despite the rough edges, he ran the company with iron precision.

“Charlotte,” he said in accented English, gesturing to the chair across his desk, piled with design blueprints. “The wedding gown for the Petrov client—they’re demanding it faster. Deadline’s moved up to next week.”

I nodded, pulling out my tablet with the sketches. “I’ve got the bodice done—lace overlays with pearl accents. But the train needs more work for that ethereal flow.”

He leaned in too close, his cologne overpowering, his gaze lingering on me in a way that made my skin crawl.

“Good. Add Swarovski crystals here,” he said, pointing to the sketch, his finger brushing mine. “They want opulence. You’re our best, Charlotte—don’t disappoint.”

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—screamed him.

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.”

“Just drive,” I said, my voice clipped, eyes fixed on the road.

We pulled up to my apartment, and I thanked him curtly, stepping out, expecting him to leave.

But Viktor got out too, adjusting his jacket, his presence like a weight I couldn’t shake. “Gosh, just go,” I muttered under my breath, my gaze snapping to a figure approaching from the street—the man from the camera.

My heart stopped. It was him.

Cassian Moretti, the devil himself, striding toward me with that predatory grace, his ocean-blue eyes locking onto mine.

His dark coat hugged his broad frame, a faint scar on his cheek catching the light.

Rage and pain surged through me, memories of raising our twins alone flooding back—every sleepless night, every tear, all because he’d cast me out in a blind fury.

Without thinking, I stormed forward and punched him hard in the face, my fist connecting with his jaw.

“Charlotte,” he said, his voice low, unfazed, as he stumbled back slightly.

I hit him again, and again, my knuckles aching, his nose starting to bleed.

“You bastard,” I hissed, tears burning my eyes.

I raised our kids alone, all because he couldn’t trust me.

Cassian wiped the blood with a handkerchief, his expression softening for a moment. “Does your hand hurt?” he asked, reaching for me.

I jerked back, my voice venomous. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

He turned to Viktor, who stood watching with a smug grin. “Is this the ‘baby’ you were talking about on the phone?” Cassian asked, his tone icy, possessive.

I spat at him, my anger boiling over. “That’s none of your business. What are you doing here?”

Cassian ignored me, his gaze fixed on Viktor. “Are you the one dating my woman?”

“Cassian, leave him out of this,” I snapped, stepping between them. “What are you here for?”

But Cassian didn’t budge, his voice a low growl. “Get in your car and leave. You have four seconds.”

Viktor smirked, unfazed, his thick accent dripping with defiance. “You’ve got some nerve, American. Coming to my city, my territory, and giving me orders? This isn’t your playground to flaunt your power.”

Cassian’s fists clenched, veins bulging, and I could see the effort it took to restrain himself. I turned to Viktor, my voice urgent but calm. “Please, Mr. Kuznetsov, go. I can handle this.”

“I’m not leaving you with him,” Viktor said, his eyes narrowing at Cassian. “I don’t trust this guy.”

“He won’t hurt me,” I said, though the words felt hollow. “Trust me.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow, his tone skeptical. “What’s between you two?”

I bristled at his intrusion, my patience thinning. “Mr. Kuznetsov, I don’t mean to be rude, but this is personal. You’ve helped me get here, and I’m grateful, but you have places to be. Please, go.”

“Family, huh?” he repeated, smirking as if he knew something I didn’t. “Fine. If he tries anything, Charlotte, call me.”

“I will. Thank you,” I said, watching as he hesitated, then climbed into his car. He lingered a moment, staring at us through the window, before finally driving off, his taillights fading into the Moscow dusk.

I turned back to Cassian, my fists still clenched. “So, Cassian, you’re not here to ruin my life again, are you?”

His eyes flicked to Viktor’s retreating car, his voice a low snarl. “I’ll kill him.”

“This is Russia,” I said, stepping closer, my voice steady despite the storm in my chest. “Your power doesn’t reach here. I’m going back to work, so for the last time before I call the cops, what the fuck are you doing at my house?”

“I gave you enough money to last a lifetime,” he said, his gaze softening but still intense. “You took ten million and gave my card to some street rat. I wanted you to be free from worry, Charlotte.”

“You think everything’s about money?” I snapped, my voice rising. “You threw me out, Cassian. You made that choice.”

“Can you let me inside?” he asked, glancing at my modest apartment, its warm lights glowing through the windows. “We need to talk.”

“No,” I said, planting myself in front of the door. “Say what you want here. I have to leave.”

He ignored me, striding to the door and pulling a key from his pocket.

My heart lurched as he slid it into the lock, the door clicking open with a sound that echoed like betrayal.

How the hell did he get a key? “What are you doing, Cassian?” I demanded, rushing after him.

“Taking back what’s mine,” he said, stepping inside without hesitation.

“That’s not me, right?” I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance.

He paused, turning to face me, his eyes burning with that familiar obsession. “That’s you, Charlotte. I came back for you.”

I followed him inside, my pulse racing, dread pooling in my stomach.

The living room was a snapshot of my life—crayons scattered on the coffee table, Aria’s glittery drawings taped to the fridge, a stuffed dragon on the couch.

I froze as Cassian’s gaze landed on a framed photo on the mantel: me with Aria and Asher at the beach last summer, their smiles bright, my arms around them.

“Are those your kids?” he asked, his voice low, almost reverent, as he picked up the frame.

I snatched it from his hands, clutching it to my chest. “No.”

“No?” He raised an eyebrow, sitting on the couch with a casualness that didn’t match the tension in his eyes. “They look the right age. Ethan’s kids, huh?”

I smirked, letting him cling to his false belief, my heart pounding with fear he’d see the truth in their faces—his face, mirrored in Asher’s sharp jaw and blue eyes. “What business is it of yours?”

“Can I see the photo again?” he asked, leaning forward.

“No,” I said, stepping back, my grip tightening on the frame. I was terrified he’d see the resemblance, that he’d suspect.

The twins were my secret, my treasure, and he didn’t deserve to know.

Not after abandoning us, after refusing to believe me. I had to get him out before he pieced it together.