Page 24 of Sinful Obsession (Broken Vows #3)

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 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.