Page 11 of Sinful Games

After quietly closing the door, I tiptoed to her bedside.

Babushka lay asleep, her frail body trembling slightly, her face etched with lines. We’d had to increase her sleeping pills recently; her relentless disease had made her delusional at times, robbing her of a full night's rest.

At least now, she’d be in peaceful slumber for a while.

I took a seat in the chair next to her bed and reached out to gently hold her hand. Her skin was smooth but thin, revealing veins and bony contours. Still, it radiated a comforting warmth. I brought her hand to my cheek, tears welling up in my eyes.

The absence of her wisdom, her sweet smile, and her beautiful heart had left a profound void in my life.

I missed the touch of her loving hands that once spent hours brushing and knotting my hair, the warmth of her kisses, and the sparkle of her jokes that could brighten any dark day. Her incredible meals were now just memories, and her soothing words were dearly missed.

Most of all, I missed her unwavering support and the stories she told about my mother.

My mama had passed away when I was only six.

My father had said it was cancer, but years later, babushka revealed the painful truth—my mother had died from a cocaine overdose.

Given my father, I could understand why she might have sought an escape.

I came to know her pain all too well in my own way, trying to leave this world myself but never succeeding.

As I sat there holding her hand, she stirred, mumbling softly in her sleep.

I leaned in close. "Please, don't leave me, babushka. I don't know what I'd do without you. You're my only family, the only one who truly understands me. Every day without you feels like a lifetime of loneliness. Please, stay with me a little longer."

If only I had known that another light would soon enter my life, only to be taken away again, like a fleeting star in the night sky.

It felt like fate was determined to rob me of every glimmer of happiness I found.

And it all began with one man.

Alexsei Romaniev.

Chapter

Four

“Behind every beautiful thing, there's some kind of pain.”

?Bob Dylan

Caia

I groaned, hopping around like an idiot, trying to hold my breath long enough to zip up my jeans. My back was sweating, and I’d been fighting with this damn zipper for ten minutes. It was official—my favorite pair of jeans didn’t fit anymore.

Great. Just what I needed.

I could almost set the world on fire over this betrayal. And, of course, I had my absolutely useless, nerve-wracking, annoying, and downright terrifying father to thank for it. I’d been stress-eating chocolate and sweets every night for the past week, trying to calm my nerves. What started as a heavenlyescape into a sea of sugary bliss had dragged me straight into the pits of fashion hell.

Frustrated, I yanked the jeans off and threw them onto the bed, where they landed in a sad, crumpled heap.Whatever.

I grabbed a fitted grey knit dress, threw it on, pulled on some tights, and sprinted to the living room to lace up my Doc Martens. One glance at my phone told me what I already knew—late for my first class.

I snatched my coat, locked up the apartment, and ran down the hallway toward the elevator, hoping today wouldn’t spiral like the last week had.

My father had been annoyingly persistent with his demands. He wanted me to drag Alexsei Romaniev into my bed like it was no big deal, but I told him now wasn’t a good time and that I was busy—which was kinda true, or at least true enough to shut him up for a few days. Or maybe I said it just to get him off my back so I could figure out a way to escape this disaster he’d thrown me into.

But, of course, knowing Kristan Mankiev, I should’ve expected some form of payback.

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