Page 25 of Sinful Obsession (Broken Vows #3)

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.