Page 76 of Sinful Obsession

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.”