Trixie

CHAPTER 3

TRIXIE

I had never been this painfully aware of my own body.

Hours had passed since I slipped out of Zahar’s bedroom, and the guilt still clung to my skin like humidity. Every time I blinked, I saw myself sprawled on his bed, breathless and shaking, sheets twisted in my fist while I whispered his name like a secret prayer.

Every time I sat down, I could feel the faint ache between my legs.

A reminder.

A confession my body refused to hide.

The worst part?

I wanted to go back.

God, I wanted it so badly I could barely think straight. If I could have disappeared without anyone noticing, I would have marched right back across the street, crawled onto that same bed, and done it again—this time harder, deeper, imagining his voice telling me exactly how filthy I was.

But I couldn’t. Not when the entire household was buzzing with preparations. The staff kept passing in and out of the living room. Dad was pacing around, checking his watch, calling Alex, our driver, twice just to confirm he was already at the airport. And Mom...

A knock sounded on my bedroom door just as I was pulling a dress over my head.

“Trixie?” Her voice floated through. “Can I come in?”

Before I could answer, the door opened and Mom stepped inside. Elegant as always, wearing a soft pink blouse and diamond earrings that sparkled way too brightly for my current mental stability.

She froze when she saw me.

Or rather… she saw how I looked.

My hands shook slightly as I zipped the back of my dress. My breathing was uneven. My chest rose too quickly. I tried to steady myself, but it only made me look guiltier.

“You’re trembling,” she said, brows drawing together. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Oh perfect.

Exactly what I needed—my mother reading every emotion on my face like an open book.

I forced a laugh, but it came out thin and cracked. “Nothing. I’m fine. I just...”

“Your father heard from Alex,” she said gently, stepping closer. “He’s already picked up your uncle Zahar. They should be here soon.”

That did not help.

My stomach clenched so violently I almost doubled over. My fingers dug into my dress, gripping the fabric to stop them from shaking.

Mom noticed. Of course she noticed.

“Trixie…” She placed a hand on my arm. Warm. Soft. Concerned. “Are you sure everything is okay? You don't look good. Did something happen?”

If only she knew what I’d been fantasizing about all morning.

I swallowed hard. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t even tell myself the truth without turning into a puddle on the floor.

“I don’t know,” I lied, looking away. “I guess… I’m just anxious. I keep wondering if he’s coming back to stay or if he’ll disappear again. He didn’t even say goodbye last time. He just left.”

It sounded convincing enough—because it was partly true.

Mom’s expression softened. She let out a long breath and walked to my bed, sitting down like she was settling in for a serious conversation.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

My heart pounded as I sat beside her, hands clasped in my lap. She took one of them gently, squeezing.

“You deserve to know why,” she said quietly.

My chest tightened.

Why he left.

Why he never came back.

Why he never sent a single message.

I had built so many painful fantasies from that silence. Maybe he hated this place. Maybe he hated doing business with Dad. Maybe he hated me.

Mom exhaled again. “Zahar left because of his father.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You remember Mikhail Litvin? His father?” she asked.

I nodded slowly. Vaguely. I barely remembered seeing him once or twice. Always from a distance. Tall. Stern. Cold. Nothing like Zahar.

“He was very sick,” Mom continued. “He was diagnosed with Alzheimer. The doctors said it was progressing fast. But what really pushed Zahar to leave was the call he received from his father’s butler.”

My breath hitched.

“He told your uncle Zahar that Mikhail’s business partners were making moves—trying to prepare a takeover. They assumed Zahar wouldn’t come back to Russia because of the bad relationship between him and his father.”

My heart squeezed. I had never known any of this.

“Zahar didn’t have a choice,” Mom said softly. “He had to go back. To protect what was left of his father’s empire. To take care of him. Even though it hurt him. Even though he didn’t want to.”

I stared at the floor, throat tight. “He didn’t even get along with his father…”

“No,” Mom agreed sadly. “He thought Mikhail was the reason his mother suffered. The reason she…” She paused, voice softening. “The reason she ended her life.”

My eyes widened.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

I had known Zahar carried a lot of burden with him, but not this. Not grief piled on top of betrayal. Not a father who haunted him even while alive.

“So why come back now?” I whispered, afraid of the answer.

Mom squeezed my hand again, gently. “Because his father passed away two weeks ago.”

The room tilted slightly.

Not from sadness… though I felt a small ache of sympathy for him.

But mostly...

Mostly I felt… relieved.

It was awful. It was terrible. It was monstrous to be happy about his loss. But deep inside, something curled with selfish hope.

He had come back.

He had no reason to leave again.

He was coming back to stay.

Here.

Across the street.

Breathing my air again.

A blush shot up my face. I could feel it burning, crawling up my neck, reaching my ears.

Mom’s eyes narrowed. “Why is your face red? Are you running a fever?”

“Oh my God... uh... I need to fix my makeup!” I blurted and shot to my feet.

I didn’t even give her time to respond. I practically sprinted into my bathroom and slammed the door.

The moment it clicked shut, I pressed both hands to my flaming cheeks and let out a breath that sounded like a dying kitten.

“Oh God…” I whispered at my reflection.

My reflection stared back—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, slightly swollen lips. I looked like someone who had just been thoroughly kissed.

Or thoroughly fantasizing about it.

And the dress...

God, the dress.

A flirty, soft satin thing in wine red, hugging my waist, flaring slightly at the hips. The kind of dress you wear when you want to pretend you’re not trying too hard while trying too hard.

I touched the fabric, smoothing it down.

I looked pretty.

Pretty enough that maybe—just maybe—he would look at me.

Not like a child.

Not like Gabe’s daughter.

Not like a neighbor he used to humor at the dinner table.

But like a woman. And perhaps, he would fuck me?

My smile grew embarrassingly wide. I pressed my fingers to my lips, trying to calm myself, but every cell in my body buzzed like electricity.

A deep, heavy rumble suddenly echoed from outside—an engine.

I froze.

Then my mom's voice called out to me.

“Trixie!” Mom called from my bedroom. “He’s here! Hurry!”

My heart slammed against my ribs with such force I almost staggered. My breath caught. My skin tingled. My stomach flipped so hard it felt like it was inside my throat.

He was here. He was here. Zahar Litvin… was here.

I grabbed the sink for balance.

This was it.

After five years of wondering.

Five years of obsessing.

Five years of imagining his return in a thousand different ways.

In minutes, I would be standing in front of him.

Would he recognize me?

Would he think I’d changed?

Would he hug me?

Would he ignore me?

Would he notice how my dress hugged my hips?

Would he smell guilt on me?

Did guilt even have a smell oh my God I might faint.

“Trixie!” Mom called again, louder this time. “Come downstairs!”

I opened the bathroom door slowly, stepping into my bedroom like someone walking into their own execution.

Mom looked beautiful, calm, confident.

I looked like I was about to have a heart attack.

“This isn’t a big deal,” she said, eyeing me like she could sense my panic. “It’s just your uncle Zahar.”

Just my uncle Zahar.

If only she knew.

She walked out first. I followed on shaky legs. Each step felt unreal, like I was floating. The hallway stretched forever. The stairs felt longer than they had ever been.

And then,

Voices.

Deep. Male. Familiar.

Dad.

And him. Him, my Zahar.

My throat tightened. My fingers trembled around the staircase rail.

The front door was open.

Dad stood at the bottom of the stairs, grinning widely, shaking someone’s hand. Before hugging them.

And that someone,

Tall.

Broad.

Dark hair longer than before.

Beard thicker.

Suit black as night.

Shoulders so wide he filled the doorway.

Zahar.

He turned at the sound of footsteps.

His gaze lifted.

His eyes met mine.

And the world stopped.