Chapter 8 - Tikhon
I’m slumped at my desk, staring at the same spreadsheet so long the numbers have turned to fog. I couldn’t tell you a single figure on that screen. It’s all just a blur now.
All I see is her face from last night, out in the hallway—eyes red, but dry, voice scraped raw when she said, “Whatever you want. Just keep my shop out of your mouth.”
Yeah, I messed up.
Not the marriage. Not even the threat—if I had to, I’d do it again just to keep her close. But talking about her pastries at the gala? That was reckless. Dumb.
I didn’t think. I just wanted her family to taste what she makes. I wanted them to see her the way I do—sharp, brilliant, and obsessed with creating something good in a world that isn’t. Instead, I made her feel as if I were holding her secret over her head.
I rub my eyes until I see little sparks. There’s a white cake box from her shop sitting on the corner of my desk. I haven’t opened it yet. Part of me is scared to. What if it tastes like guilt?
Then a knock at the door. Andrei pokes his head in. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
He steps in and shuts the door behind him. “Meeting at ten. Zolotov cousins are pushing again on the west-side warehouses. Boris wants a sit-down next week.”
I nod. “I’ll be there.”
He just stands there, watching me. “You sure? You’ve been off since the wedding.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” He folds his arms. “She’s got you all twisted up.”
I don’t bother denying it. “She should be pissed.”
“She should,” he says, shrugging. “But you’re not the guy who sits around feeling sorry for himself. Fix it or move on.”
“I’m trying.”
He snorts. “By glaring at spreadsheets like they insulted your mother?”
“Something like that.”
He leaves. Doesn’t say anything else. I sit there for another five minutes. Then I finally open the cake box.
It’s small—chocolate hazelnut, my favorite. Ganache shining, hazelnut praline scattered on top like gold coins. One perfect chocolate buttercream rosette in the middle.
No note.
No name.
Just the cake.
I don’t have a knife, so I use a letter opener to cut a slice. Take a bite.
It’s flawless. Rich and deep, hazelnut slicing through the sweetness. The texture’s like silk. I close my eyes and taste every hour she put into it—the careful tempering, the folding, the piping. I can practically feel her focus in every bite. I bet she glared at that ganache until it behaved.
My throat tightens.
I eat the first slice standing up. Then another. By the third, I can’t even taste it anymore. I’m just punishing myself with how perfect it is.
I can’t do this anymore.
I grab my coat and keys and leave.
The drive to her shop is quiet. Snow’s stopped. The streets are slick and shining under the streetlights. I park a block away so she won’t spot the car. Walk the rest of the way with my hands shoved in my pockets, collar pulled up.
The closed sign’s up, but the lights are still on in the back. I can see her shape moving behind the pass-through window—quick, efficient, just like always.
I knock, soft, on the glass door.
She freezes. Then comes out, wiping her hands on her apron. When she sees me, her face just shuts down.
She unlocks the door but doesn’t open it all the way. “We’re closed.”
“I know.”
She looks me over. “What do you want?”
“To talk.”
She hesitates. Then steps back. “Five minutes.”
I step in. The bell chimes. The smell hits me—warm butter, vanilla, something bright and citrusy. She locks the door behind me and crosses her arms.
I don’t waste time. “I’m sorry about last night.”
She doesn’t budge. “Which part?”
“The part where I ran my mouth about the pastries. I wasn’t trying to out you. I just—” I let out a breath. “I wanted them to know how good you are. That’s it.”
Her eyes narrow. “You wanted them to know. Or you wanted leverage?”
“Neither.” I meet her eyes. “I wanted them to taste what I taste when I come here. I wanted them to see you as I do.”
She looks away. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
“I know.”
She’s quiet for a long time. Then, “Why are you here?”
“Because I can’t stop thinking about how hurt you looked. And because I’m an asshole who doesn’t know how to fix it without screwing it up more.”
She snorts. “At least you’re honest.”
“I’m trying.”
She walks behind the counter. Starts wiping down a spot that’s already clean. “You can’t fix it with apologies, Tikhon. You can’t fix blackmail with a sorry.”
“I’m not trying to erase it. I’m trying to make the rest of it better.”
She stops wiping and looks at me. “Why do you care so much?”
You’re the only thing that’s felt like home to me in years. When I watch you work, everything in my head just goes quiet. And the idea of you hating me forever? That’s worse than anything I’ve ever faced.
So I say it. “Because I’m in love with you.”
The words hang in the air, and she freezes.
I press on. “Didn’t plan it. Didn’t even want it. But it happened. Somewhere between that first cupcake and the way you looked at me when you thought I was just some guy with a sweet tooth, I fell. Hard. And I haven’t stopped.”
She just stares at me. “You don’t get to say that.”
“I know. I’m saying it anyway.”
She swallows. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
She turns away. “I’m working on a new pastry cream. Vanilla bean and cardamom. Want to try it?”
She changes the subject so fast I almost laugh. “Yeah, sure.”
She disappears into the back and comes out with a little bowl and a spoon. Dips it, offers it to me.
I take the spoon from her fingers. Our hands brush. She doesn’t pull away.
I taste it. It’s smooth, rich, and that cardamom hits in a way I wasn’t expecting. “Jesus. This is—”
“Good?” she asks, a little shy.
“Way better than good.” I clean the spoon. “You’re going to ruin me for anything else.”
Her lips twitch. “That’s the idea.”
We stand there, the counter and the bowl between us, but the air feels lighter.
She takes the spoon back. “You can go now.”
I don’t move. “Can I stay?”
She sizes me up. “Why?”
“I like watching you work.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. “Fine. But you sit. And you don’t talk unless I ask.”
“Deal.”
She points me to the stool at the end of the counter. I sit.
She’s back at it—measuring, cracking eggs one-handed, whisking, tasting, and adjusting. I can’t look away. She moves like she belongs here, every motion sure.
Twenty minutes later, she slides a dish over. Fresh pastry cream, still warm. “Try again.”
I take a bite. The flavors have settled in, deeper now. “Perfect.”
She gives me a real smile. Just a small one, but it’s there. “Good.”
I set the spoon down. “Katya.”
She glances up.
“I meant it. I’m not asking you to love me back. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I’m not leaving. And I won’t hurt you again. Not if I can help it.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just wipes her hands on her apron.
Quietly, she says, “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
“I know.”
“But…” She lets out a breath. “I don’t want to hate you anymore.”
My chest loosens. “That’s enough.”
She nods, turns back to her work.
I hang around another hour. Don’t say a word. Just watch her. When she shuts off the lights and locks up, I walk her to the car.
At the driver’s door, she stops. “You’re riding with me?”
“Yeah.” I text one of my guys to come get my car.
She doesn’t argue.
The drive is quiet. Snow starts falling again. She leaves the radio off.
When we pull into the garage, she kills the engine and sits there.
“Tikhon.”
“Yeah?”
“If you ever threaten my shop again—even as a joke—I’ll leave. And I won’t come back.”
“I get it.”
She looks at me. “Do you?”
“I do.”
She nods, gets out.
I follow her inside. She heads upstairs without a word. I stay in the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and drink it at the sink.
Upstairs, her door closes softly.
I go to my own room, lie down in the dark.
For the first time since the wedding, I fall asleep smiling.
***
It’s been four days since I had to stand under the shower until the water ran cold enough to sting.
Four days of holding myself together, keeping my hands in my pockets, my gaze down, my voice steady—when all I really wanted was to shove her against a wall and taste every inch of skin she keeps hidden under those damn hoodies and silk robes.
I kept telling myself I could manage. That this restraint was some kind of penance—my price for forcing her into this marriage, for twisting her dream until it fit my own. I promised myself I’d wait as long as she needed.
I was lying.
This morning ruined whatever grip I still had on control.
I was already at my desk downtown. Coffee cold, laptop open, the spreadsheet just a blur. I hadn’t looked at it in ages. Then I heard her on the stairs.
Bare feet, quick steps on hardwood. I glanced up through the kitchen doorway just as she hit the last step.
Rose-colored silk.
The robe barely covered her thighs, and the morning light made it see-through wherever it clung to her skin. She hadn’t bothered tying it properly—the belt was loose, the neckline open, and I caught a perfect view of the curve of her breasts and the dark line between them.
Her nipples pressed against the silk, small peaks begging for my mouth.
Her legs went on forever—smooth, toned, the robe parting with each step, flashing hip and inner thigh.
Her hair was a mess, falling in waves over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed pink—probably from the cold kitchen tile or maybe the shower.
She looked like sin draped in rose petals.
I froze.
Coffee cup halfway to my mouth. Breath stuck. Instantly hard.
She didn’t notice me. Just yawned, arms overhead, robe slipping even more, then padded to the fridge like she wasn’t driving me insane.
I set my cup down. Too hard. The saucer cracked.
She turned. Met my stare.
For a second, we just looked at each other—her in that barely-there robe, me gripping the desk like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
Then she smiled. Small, sly, a hint of wickedness. And walked away.
I survived forty-seven more minutes.
Now I’m here—downtown office, door locked, blinds half-closed, tie loose, sleeves shoved up, chair pushed back so I can actually breathe.
My assistant—Elena—knocked once. I snapped at her to hold all my calls. Every last one. She didn’t ask why, just squeaked a reply and vanished.
Now I lean back, eyes closed, head pressed to the leather.
Katya.
I see her again—rose silk pulling open over gold skin, nipples tight, thighs flexing. I imagine catching her in the hallway, pressing her to the wall, sliding my hand under that robe, finding her already wet and wanting. The sound she’d make when I slipped two fingers inside.
Her head falling back, her throat bare, inviting my mouth. The way she’d move against my hand—hips rolling, those desperate noises spilling out—until she came, shaking and clutching at me, my name a prayer on her lips.
My hand moves without thinking, pressing hard against the ache behind my zipper. I groan, low. It’s not enough. Nothing is.
I unzip—slow, deliberate. Free myself. Thick, heavy, already leaking. I wrap my hand around the base and squeeze hard. My hips jerk.
I picture her on her knees, caramel eyes wide, lips parted, tongue flicking out. I imagine sliding into her mouth, slow and careful, letting her take her time.
Her hands on my thighs, nails digging in. The heat, the suction, the way she’d moan like she can’t get enough.
I stroke—slow at first, then faster—thinking about her mouth sliding down, taking me all the way. I watch her throat work, her eyes a little watery but locked on mine. I picture pulling out, leaving my mark on her lips, her tongue, her cheeks, as if I own every inch of her.
My breath quickens. My hand moves faster. The old desk chair groans under me.
In my head, I flip her onto the kitchen island.
Her thighs open for me. I bury my face between them, tasting her—sweet, slick, can’t get enough.
She’s got her fingers tangled in my hair, yanking hard, her back arching, hips jerking, moaning my name until her voice echoes through the whole damn house.
I groan—low and rough. My balls tighten. The pressure’s on, hot and impossible to ignore.
I imagine sliding into her, nice and deep, feeling her clamp around me.
Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging in.
Her nails scrape down my back. She’s begging—voice wrecked, desperate—for more.
Harder, deeper. We break together, her body pulsing around me, milking every last drop, and I lose myself inside her.
I come, hard and sudden, spilling over my fist. My stomach tightens, my hips jerk, and I let out this broken sound I barely recognize. For a second, everything goes white.
When I finally come back, I’m gasping. My hand’s sticky. My shirt’s all bunched up, tie twisted.
I slump in the chair, trying to catch my breath.
Katya.
She’s in my veins now. Under my skin. Every breath, she’s right there.
I clean up quick—grab tissues, wipe myself, wash my hands in the little bathroom. Straighten my tie, smooth my shirt.
I catch my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes are still dark, pupils huge, face flushed. Honestly, I look like a man who’s already lost.
And I have.
I walk back to my desk and just sit there, staring at the empty screen.
She’s winning, and the truth is, I don’t even want to fight it anymore.