Page 173 of Sinful Games

“You think I got over you? I just got older.”

?Karl Kristian Flores

Caia

As I sat there editing the last picture of the day, a smile tugged at my lips. The heartwarming scene before me was impossible to resist.

Two weeks had passed since I’d captured the moment when a 75-year-old Asian man dropped to one knee, proposing to his 72-year-old Mexican sweetheart. Her eyes had widened in shock, while he beamed with the most endearing grin, clutching a dazzling 2-carat diamond ring.

The backdrop? A chic Italian restaurant, candles flickering softly, creating an ambiance straight out of a romance movie. Everything had been simply perfect.

Memories of that day flooded back, especially something Tao Chen, my client, said when he hired me for the surprise.

"You know," he’d chuckled, "they say love is like searching for your glasses when you're already wearing them. Sometimes, you spend years looking, and then one day, you realize it's been right in front of you all along, even when you thought you were too old, too broken, or too late to find it."

His words filled me with warmth, but that feeling was quickly overshadowed by an unease creeping into my thoughts. My conversation with Alexsei kept playing in my head.

To be honest, I was scared—terrified, really. Terrified of that woman and the danger she might bring to him... or even me.

Despite the heartwarming scene I had captured, the worry weighed heavy on my heart, casting a shadow over the small joy the picture brought. I stretched, feeling the day's fatigue melt away, and glanced around Alexsei’s almost-empty living room.

One of his jackets was draped over the couch, a first edition ofRomeo and Julietlay on the coffee table, his sunglasses sat on the kitchen table, and his silver zippo rested next to them. The room felt suspended in time—every object a piece of him.

I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. It smelled just like him—so familiar, once mine.

Rising from the couch, I padded quietly to his bedroom door and paused. I’d been staying here for four days and had never dared to explore his room. I told myself I was respecting his privacy, but deep down, I knew it was fear.

What was I afraid of? It’s not like I’d find corpses in there …right?

I let out a nervous chuckle, trying to shake off the rising guilt. Slowly, I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.The room looked just as I imagined—spacious, meticulous, and organized.

Alexsei had left to check on Scarlett Harper, stepping in as her manager to save time, and I knew he wouldn’t be back for a while. It gave me the freedom to finally look around.

The bed was neatly made, the dark, luxurious sheets perfectly smooth. A framed photo on the nightstand caught my eye—it was of us, smiling and carefree, from happier times. His wardrobe doors were slightly ajar, revealing his impeccably arranged clothes.

Everything was so...him, it almost hurt.

I wandered further in, noticing the little things that made this room uniquely Alexsei’s: the faint scent of his cologne, the stack of well-worn books by the window, full of his notes. Magazines about cars were scattered on the bedside shelf, next to a neatly foldedNew York Times.

Then I saw them—photos on the walls that made my heart ache. Pictures of me, of the two of us together, and of Lukyan. Some of all three of us, frozen moments from our life together. Taking a deep breath, I let it all sink in, my heart throbbing with pain.

A part of me would always carry the weight of regret for leaving Alexsei. But another part would forever hold on to the solace of knowing I tried to protect him.

I sat down on the right side of the bed and glanced out the window at the breathtaking view of Central Park. Another framed picture on the bedside shelf caught my attention, making me smile. It was us, from one of our date nights months after Lukyan was born. I remembered that night vividly. Alexsei had surprised me by booking a rooftop restaurant. We arrived just in time to catch the last rays of sunlight fading over the city. We sat under the stars, indulging in lobster and pasta.

We had taken the photo with his phone, capturing the moment perfectly. I was in his arms, smiling wide, while he leaned down to kiss the top of my head.

As I held the picture, memories flooded back—laughter, whispered promises, stolen kisses, and sweaty love-making.

With a heavy sigh, I reluctantly set the picture down, ready to leave the room. But as I moved to stand, a simple matte black box tucked under the bedside shelf caught my eye. Intrigued, I knelt down, brushing off the dust from the top, and slowly lifted the lid.

What I found inside shattered my heart.

It was a collection of Lukyan’s belongings—his cherished wolf teddy, a gift from Volk when he was born, his blue pacifier, and his favorite book,The Story of the Moon and the Orphan Child. Dozens of pictures of him filled the box, ones I had taken, capturing his little smile. But there were also some of me.

My wedding ring was nestled in its original velvety Tiffany box, alongside my favorite little mirror he got me years ago in Saint Petersburg from that antique shop that looked like it was plucked straight out of Paris.

And next to it—no way.

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