Ask Me Anything, Babochka.

Caitlyn’s pov 

The ringing of my phone slices through the silence of my apartment. My gaze flickers to the screen. My step dad's name glows against the dark background.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Caitlyn,” his voice is warm, grounding me in the middle of the chaos swirling in my head. “How’s my favorite munchkin doing?”

“I’m good,” I lie, my eyes locked on the untouched dinner in front of me.

He exhales heavily, the doubt in his voice unmistakable. “You sure? You sound off.”

I almost laugh at the absurdity of the question. Am I okay? No. I haven’t been okay for a while. Not since that night. Not since him.

A part of me wants to tell him. Wants to unload everything onto the one person who has never turned his back on me. But the words lodge in my throat, suffocating me.

“I’m fine, Dad. Just the usual work, life.” The words feel like an empty reassurance meant more for myself than for him.

“I—” I swallow hard, glancing at the TV where a random Korean drama flickers across the screen. The voices blur into the background, drowned out by my own thoughts.  Actually, I’m not.  The confession teeters on the edge of my tongue, but I don’t say it out loud.

Dad sighs. “When are you and Mia coming to visit your old man again? It’s been a while.” He tries to keep his tone light, but the worry is there, woven into every syllable.

“I have a work report to finish up, Dad. I’ll call you back.” The excuse feels flimsy even to me.

“Mmh.” He doesn’t believe me. “Alright. Just… don’t shut everyone out, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper before hanging up. 

I feel like a damn spoiled brat to the only person who took care of me, loved me unconditionally after my mom left even when I was not his biological kid.  

I settle in an obscenely strained silence that swells pressing against my chest. My heart pounds, heavy and erratic. I inhale trying to will the suffocating weight away, but it clings to me, a dark thing wrapping around my ribs.

My ruthless thoughts drag me back to that evening —the prison cell..to him. 

I cringe at the memory of how my body betrayed me, the way heat coiled low in my stomach just from the ghost of his warm touch lingered on my body as he belittled me. The way his voice—low, rich, knowing—wrapped around filthy words, sinking into my bones.

I should loathe him.

But what I hate more is how easily my pulse still races at the thought of him.

The wag my heart flutters remembering that scent—bergamot and cedarwood clings to my senses, as familiar as my own skin. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memories away.

But it's too late. He’s already ingrained to my bones.

The front door swings open, shattering my spiraling thoughts.

Mia stands there, smirking like she just won a battle. “I  knew  it.”

I arch a brow. “Knew what?”

She tosses her purse onto the couch and strides in like she owns the place. “That you’re spiraling again.”

I roll my eyes. “Mia, I—”

“Nope. No arguments.” She disappears into my bedroom, returning seconds later with a tiny black dress that screams  trouble.  “Put this on. We’re going out.”

I groan. “I don’t think—”

“Again. Nope.” She waves the dress in front of me. “We’re going to Bespredal. ”

A Russian club. The kind of place people go to lose themselves—to drown in flashing lights and music that vibrates in their bones. A place filled with men who look at women like they’re prey.

But maybe that’s what I need.

Half an hour later, I sit in front of Mia as she paints my lips a deep red. My dress clings to me like a second skin, the neckline plunging just enough to make me self-conscious. My makeup is dramatic—seductive—definitely not me.

But maybe that’s what I need.

To be someone else for a night.

By the time we step into Bespredal , the music is deafening, the lights flashing in chaotic patterns that match the storm in my head. Mia drags me to the bar, ordering drinks faster than I can keep up with.

I down one, then another, ignoring the burn, chasing numbness.

Mia laughs, already swaying to the music. “You’re drinking like you’re on a mission.”

“Maybe I am.” I give her a lazy smile, the alcohol warming my veins.

“Well, my mission involves dancing with that guy.” She winks, nodding toward a dark-haired man making his way toward her. Within seconds, they vanish into the crowd, leaving me alone at the bar.

“You look like you could use another drink.”

The voice pulls me from my daze. I turn to see a man standing beside me—late twenties, sharp suit, the floppy hair of a nerdy banker. Not the creepy kind. Harmless.

I force a smile taking the apple martini in his hand “You might be right.”

“I’m Jared.” He extends his hand.

Typical banker.

“Caitlyn.”

We talk—well, he talks. About his job, his bank, some project he’s excited about. I nod and laugh in all the right places, sip my drink, try to seem interested. But my mind drifts, and the alcohol is hitting harder than I expected.

When I finally decide I need to leave, I slide off the barstool—only for my ankle to give out. Jared catches my arm, steadying me. “You alright?”

“Yeah, just… had too much to drink.” I chuckle at myself.

“Let me call you a cab. Or, if you’re free this weekend, we could grab coffee?”

I hesitate. And then…

The scent hits me first. Dark, rich, utterly intoxicating and familiar. A firm hand presses against my lower back, sending a jolt through my body.

“She’s not free,” a voice murmurs. Low. Unmistakable.

Jared stiffens, eyes darting between me and the man now standing behind me.

“I… who are you?” Jared asks cautiously.

“The man taking her home.”

My breath catches. A slow, creeping dread coils in my stomach as I turn.

He’s here. Vladislav Mikhailov.

Jared glances between us before stepping back. “Right. Well… nice meeting you, Caitlyn.”

I clench my jaw as he disappears into the crowd before whirling around. “Are you serious? What the hell are you doing here? Were you following me?”

My patient turned stalker tilts his head, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “That’s a question I should be asking you, considering you’re in my premises.”

I scoff. “I don’t even know you. Why the hell would I stalk you?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I cringe at how untrue they sound. For God's sake, he is-was my patient, so I have his basic details, and I know he is my ex-boyfriend’s dad. 

His smirk deepens. Fingers trail up my spine, slow, deliberate, before settling on my shoulder and leaning too close to my lips that I can taste the whiskey, “Then let’s change that.”

Before I can argue, he’s leading me toward the dance floor.

“Ask me anything, babochka. Desires. Needs. I can take care of all of it. Just. Request. For. It.”