Tick-Tock
Kristin Evans

© Kristin Evans, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-0129-5

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Kristin Evans

Tick-Tock

Chapter 1: The Diamond Mirage

The air in the twentieth-floor conference room hummed with a blend of tension, expensive perfume, and the aroma of freshly brewed espresso. On the large screen, flawless slides seamlessly gave way to one another – growth charts, brand logos, inspirational quotes. And at the center of this whirlwind, standing at the podium, was her. Nastya.

Her voice, steady and confident, filled the space, mesmerizing the audience. Every word was precise, every gesture polished to perfection. Dressed in an expensive, minimalist suit the color of sea green, with impeccable hair and makeup, she was the embodiment of success, a living illustration for a presentation titled «How to Conquer the World.»

«Real-time data integration will allow us not just to react to market changes, but to anticipate them,» she was saying, her gaze gliding over the faces of the important shareholders, catching their nods of approval. «We are creating not just a campaign; we are creating a new standard.»

Her bosses’ eyes radiated absolute trust. Her male colleagues looked on with a respect tinged with envy. The project she had worked on without a single day off for the last three months was her brainchild, her baby. And now that baby was taking its first confident steps, and the room was applauding it. Applauding her.

This should have been it – the moment of triumph. The very moment she had burned herself out at work for years to achieve, had sacrificed her personal life for career advancement, had stayed late night after night, proving to everyone and herself that she was worth something. A sweet lump of happiness should have been rising in her throat, her heart should have been leaping out of her chest with pride.

But there was only emptiness.

The applause merged into a dull roar, like the sound of surf somewhere far, far away. The smiles, handshakes, pats on the back – it all felt like it was happening through thick glass. Nastya smiled automatically, thanked everyone, accepted the compliments, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Or rather, nowhere. They were just drifting away, leaving behind a strange, ringing silence.

«Nastya, brilliant!» A firm handshake from Vadim, the Director of Development. His fingers were cool and hard, like polished wood. «I never doubted it. This contract is ours. We absolutely must celebrate tonight.»

«Thank you, Vadim,» her voice sounded foreign even to her own ears. «The team worked hard.»

«I saw the team. But I also saw who was leading it,» he gave her a meaningful smile, and his gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary. The gaze of an appraiser. A gaze that held not just professional interest. It was the look of a man who was already calculating whether this particular piece would fit into his perfectly constructed life.

Nastya politely looked away.

The congratulations lasted another good half hour. Finally, the room emptied, leaving behind the smell of coffee, paper, and faint exhaustion. Nastya was left alone before a huge panoramic window overlooking the evening metropolis. Myriad lights, speeding cars, tiny people below. She was standing on top of the world. Literally. She looked down at this city boiling with life and felt utterly, completely alone.

This feeling had been washing over her more and more often lately. It came at night, in her spacious, quiet bedroom, where the only sound was the steady hum of the air conditioner. It caught up with her on Friday evenings when she ordered sushi for one and watched a series, careful not to spill crumbs on the perfectly clean sofa. It was with her now, at the peak of her professional success.

She reached for her phone. Instinctively, automatically, like grabbing for a life raft. The bright screen blinded her in the semi-darkness of the hall. Social media. Smiling faces. Dozens, hundreds of smiling faces.

Katya, a friend from university. A photo with two kids in an apple orchard. The little ones, squinting in the sun, wearing tiny overalls. Caption: «My greatest happiness! Thank you, my beloved man, for this day!» Hashtags: #family #kids #happinessisreal.

Masha, a former colleague. A wedding photo. A white dress, tears of joy in her eyes, a look full of adoration for the man gazing proudly at her. Hashtags: #love #myhusband #anewbeginning.

Even Olga, who had always been a fierce careerist and laughed at the «baby brains» of those on maternity leave, had posted a picture: her hand with a manicure resting on a noticeably rounded belly. Hashtag: #awaitingamiracle.

Each photo was like a small prick from a fine, sharp needle. Deep down, beneath the layers of fatigue and self-control, something aching and sore stirred and demanded attention. Something that whispered: «And what about your miracle? Your happiness?»

She sharply turned off the screen. The silence deafened her once more. The city lights now seemed not a symbol of success, but millions of alien windows behind which other lives were being lived – dinners were being cooked, children were laughing, lovers were fighting and making up. And outside her window, there was only silence.

She gathered her things, turned off the lights in the hall, and stepped into the deserted corridor, gleaming under the cold light of LED lamps. Her heels beat a clear, lonely rhythm on the polished granite floor. It was the sound of her success. The sound of her loneliness.

The elevator descended smoothly and silently to the underground parking garage. Getting into her car, she paused for a moment to study her reflection in the dark glass. A beautiful woman. A successful woman. A tired woman with empty eyes.

The drive home blurred into a streak of streetlights and headlights. She didn’t turn on the music. She drove in silence, broken only by the whisper of tires on asphalt.

Her apartment greeted her with its usual sterile coolness. Designer renovation, expensive furniture, all shades of beige and gray. Everything was perfect, meticulous, like in a magazine. And utterly lifeless. Not a single extraneous object, not a speck of dust, not a single random spark of the chaos from which life is born.

She kicked off her shoes without neatly placing them in the closet – an unthinkable breach of her own rules – and walked into the kitchen. Mechanically, she poured herself a glass of red wine without even looking at the label. She took a sip. The tart taste spread over her tongue but brought no relaxation, no pleasure.

And at that moment, the phone rang. Mom. Nastya squeezed her eyes shut for a second, gathering her strength. She knew what this conversation would be about.

«Nastenka, my dear girl! So? How did your presentation go?» her mother’s voice sounded bright and excited.

«Everything went well, Mom. We got the contract.»

«Oh, you clever girl! I knew it! Of course, who could ever beat my daughter!» There was legitimate pride in her voice. «Congratulations! You’re a real big shot now!»

Nastya could feel the «but» coming. It hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.

«Thanks, Mom.»

«You’re probably going to celebrate now? With the team?» her mother’s voice held a faint but clear hope.

«No, Mom. I’m home. I’m just dead tired.»

A short but eloquent silence hung on the other end of the line. Disappointment.

«All alone? You should have gone out… Maybe one of the men invited you? To celebrate such a success!» Her mother tried to sound light, but the falseness was palpable.

«No one invited me, Mom. Everyone came to work, not to socialize.»

«Oh, Nastyusha…» her mother’s voice softened, a note of anxiety creeping in. «You have everything: a career, beauty, an apartment… All you need is a good husband and a little one. Otherwise, you’re just running around buried in work, and life is passing you by. Look at Katyusha, remember her from the next building? She just had her third… And you’re already thirty-five…»

Nastya’s heart constricted. A direct hit. As always.

«Mom, please, don’t start. I’m tired.»

«I’m not starting! I’m just worried as your mother. Time waits for no one. Your biological clock is ticking. You might meet a wonderful man, but it could already be too late… Just think about that.»

«Biological clock.» The phrase affected her like a red rag to a bull. It reduced her from a person to a walking reproductive organ with an expiration date.

«Mom, I’ll think about it. I need to rest. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?»

«Okay, okay, rest, my dear. Congratulations again on your success. Love you.»

Nastya hung up and pushed the phone away as if it were red-hot. She walked over to the huge, floor-to-ceiling window. The city bustled below. Somewhere out there were Katya with her kids, Masha with her husband, Olga with her belly. And she was standing here, alone, in her perfect, measured, empty cage on the twentieth floor.

She pressed her palm against the cold glass. The wine in her glass trembled slightly. She caught her reflection in the dark glass – blurred, lonely, frozen between two worlds: the bright, noisy world outside and the quiet, lifeless one within.

The triumph had passed, leaving behind a bittersweet aftertaste and a nagging sense of loss for something very important. Something that couldn’t be bought with money or won with contracts. Loneliness enveloped her, thick and heavy, like a velvet cloak.

She took another sip of wine. «Biological clock is ticking,» her mother’s voice echoed in her head. And in the silence of the luxurious apartment, she suddenly fancied she could hear that sound – quiet, persistent, relentless. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

It beat in time with her own heart, counting out the seconds of her impeccable, successful, and profoundly lonely life.

Chapter 2: The Wake-Up Call

The morning began with the coffee machine breaking. It didn’t just refuse to work; it let out a pathetic hissing sound and spat a stream of murky brown liquid onto the polished concrete countertop, something more resembling mud than espresso. For Nastya, this wasn’t a minor domestic annoyance but an ominous sign. The coffee machine was as much a tuned and predictable element of her universe as her meeting schedule and her nightly skincare routine. Its failure introduced chaos into a perfect order already shaken by the previous evening.

She irritably poked at the buttons, trying to reboot the machine, but it only wheezed in response. Tick-tock, the sound suddenly echoed in her head. Stupid. Absurd. But she heard that obsessive, steady rhythm distinctly.

«Dammit,» she swore quietly, stepping away from the treacherously silent machine.

A headache, dull and persistent, reminded her of yesterday’s glass of wine and the sleepless night spent grinding the same thoughts over and over. Today was Marina’s birthday, her friend from university. Marina was one of those who had chosen «family» right after graduation. And now, ten years later, she had two children, a lawyer husband, and a life that on social media resembled an idyllic postcard: homemade cookies, family trips, a cozy house with a fireplace.

Nastya hated these visits to her settled friends. It was like a tour of a parallel universe where she felt like an alien, a black sheep, a creature with incorrectly tuned instincts. But she couldn’t refuse. Marina would be offended and would then spend a month with the hurt look of a martyr whose «former careerist friend» had scorned her.

She tried to make coffee in a cezve but in her agitation, she over-peppered it and nearly spilled boiling water on her hand. Everything was slipping from her grasp. Nerves. Damned nerves.

An hour later, standing in front of the mirror in her spacious walk-in closet, she caught herself choosing an outfit for this visit like donning armor. What to wear to not look too formal? Too rich? Too lonely? She finally settled on expensive but deliberately simple jeans, a cashmere sweater, and sneakers from a trendy designer. A mask of casualness costing half her assistant’s monthly salary.

The drive to Marina’s country house took over an hour. The further she got from the center, from glass and concrete, the tighter the unpleasant feeling in her chest squeezed. Her SUV, perfect for the city, seemed overly pampered and out of place among the practical minivans and used foreign cars.

Marina’s house, as expected, looked like a gingerbread house: a neat lawn, a swing in the yard, a toy truck forgotten under the porch. From an open window came the shrieks of children and the smell of something homemade and sweet. Nastya froze in the car for a second, gathering her courage, inhaling the scent of someone else’s, yet so correct, happiness. Again, she thought she heard ticking. She shook her head. Paranoia.

She was met by a whirlwind of sounds. The delighted screams of two little rascals racing down the hallway, the barking of some small shaggy dog, Marina’s voice shouting from the kitchen: «Stop running! Say hello to Auntie Nastya!»

Marina ran out into the hallway, covered in flour, with rosy cheeks and shining eyes. She hugged Nastya so tightly it knocked the wind out of her.

«Nastyusha! You made it! Wonderful! Kids, come here, look what a beautiful friend has come to see me!»

The children, six and four years old, stopped and stared at her like she was an alien. The older one, Yegor, asked:

«Did you bring us anything?»

«Yegor! Shame on you!» Marina exclaimed, but her eyes showed approval. This was how it was supposed to be. Auntie Nastya was a fairy-tale rich fairy who always brought cool gifts.

Nastya handed over two bright bags. She had stopped at the most expensive children’s store in the city and, with a consultant’s help, bought the latest model building set and a huge interactive doll. The kids snatched the gifts with squeals and ran off without even saying «thank you.»

«Oh, Nast, you shouldn’t have spent so much!» Marina shook her head, but it was clear she was flattered. «Come into the living room, I’ll pour some tea. Kirill is on the couch watching football, keep him company.»

Kirill, Marina’s husband, lazily raised a hand in greeting without taking his eyes off the screen. «Caveman,» Nastya thought. He was always a man of few words and perceived Nastya’s visits as a necessary evil.

Nastya perched on the edge of the couch, feeling out of place. Her perfect jeans seemed specially created for another context. Here, among children’s socks, scattered magazines, and juice stains on the carpet, she looked like an exhibit from a modern art museum that had accidentally ended up at a flea market.

«So, how are things?» Marina shouted from the kitchen. «How was yesterday’s triumph? Did everything go well?»

«Yes, thanks, everything’s great,» Nastya replied, trying to sound cheerful. «We got the contract.»

«Good for you!» an approving cry came back. «Sometimes, sitting here with the kids, it feels like real life is boiling away out there in the big city without you!»

There was a slight reproach in that. Like, we’re here, and you’re out there in the real world. Nastya wanted to object that this was the real life – this chaos, these screams, this smell of home baking – but the words wouldn’t come. For her, this was the surreal part.

«Can you help me in the kitchen? Need to pour juice into glasses!» Marina called.

Nastya jumped up from the couch with relief. A task. Something to do. Creative chaos reigned in the kitchen. Marina, without stopping her chatter, bustled between the oven and the table cluttered with groceries.

«Here, Nast, be a dear, take that tray with the glasses to the table in the living room. Just be careful, they’re glass.»

Nastya took the tray. It was heavier than she expected. Six full glasses of orange juice. At that moment, the younger child, Liza, decided to zip through the kitchen on her scooter, bumping into Nastya’s leg. Nastya flinched, the tray swayed. One glass, the one on the very edge, wobbled as if in slow motion, tipped over, and shattered with a loud crunch on the tiled floor. A sticky orange puddle instantly spread, glass shards glittering like tears.

A dead silence fell, broken only by the voice of the sports commentator from the living room.

«Oops!» Liza squeaked fearfully and froze.

Marina sighed. It wasn’t an angry sigh, but a tired, deep one, full of that universal patience Nastya so lacked.

«Lizanka, I told you, no riding in the kitchen! It’s okay, it’s okay… Nast, you didn’t cut yourself, did you? Go on, I’ll clean it up.»

«No, I… I’ll do it, sorry, it was an accident,» Nastya babbled, feeling her face burn. She was that clumsy teenage girl again who was always breaking and dropping things. The successful PR director had vanished, leaving behind only embarrassment and shame.

«Hey, it’s nothing!» Marina was already grabbing a rag. «This happens every day here. Really, every day, right?» She winked at her daughter, who, forgiven, smiled.

Nastya stepped aside, feeling completely superfluous. Her attempt to help had led to disaster. She watched as Marina deftly and without fuss collected the shards, wiped the floor, calmed the child – all in two minutes. It was a skill honed by years of living in a state of permanent chaos. Nastya could organize an event for a thousand people, but spilled juice reduced her to a stupor.

The rest of the visit passed in futile attempts by Nastya to blend into the general atmosphere. She tried to play with the kids, but they immediately sensed her stiffness and unnaturalness and soon lost interest. She tried to talk to Kirill about football, but her knowledge was limited to a couple of famous names. She helped set the table but kept confusing which fork went where, and in the end, Marina with mild irritation rearranged everything correctly.

She caught their glances. Not judgmental, no. Rather, curious. Looking at a strange animal. «There’s Nastya,» those glances seemed to say, «so successful, so cool, but she can’t even cuddle a child properly and is afraid to pick up a glass from the table. And I can bake a pie and raise two kids.»

When she finally gathered her things to leave, feeling emotionally drained, Marina walked her to the car.

«Thanks for coming,» her friend hugged her. «Sorry about us, it’s perpetual bedlam here. Not really guest-friendly.»

«Don’t be silly, everything was wonderful,» Nastya lied.

«Listen, haven’t you thought about…?» Marina hesitated. «Well, you know… a family. A child. You’re already thirty-five, time’s running out. You can’t spend your whole life running from meeting to meeting alone.»

Nastya froze, a smile plastered on her face. Again. That question again. Like a mantra. Like a spell of this whole world she couldn’t fit into.

«I think about it,» she replied shortly.

«Don’t think too long,» Marina advised. «Or you’ll end up a beautiful but lonely lady with a doll in an expensive apartment. That’s boring, Nast. Truly boring.»

Nastya just nodded, got in the car, and started the engine. She waved to Marina, still standing by the gate, and pulled away. In the rearview mirror, her friend, her house, her life – all shrank and turned into one of those very pictures from social media. Perfect and unattainable.

She drove back to the city, and with every minute, the weight on her soul only grew. She was a failure. A bad friend, a bad guest, a bad potential mother. She couldn’t handle the basics – kids, juice, simple human interaction. Her world of charts, contracts, and presentations crumbled upon collision with reality, which smelled of homemade cookies and children’s tears.

To distract herself, she turned on the radio. But they were singing about love there, too. She turned it off. Her head pounded: «Failure. Alien. Wrong.»

She decided to stop by the hypermarket near her house. She needed to buy groceries to fill the emptiness of her refrigerator and, perhaps, her life. She mechanically pushed the cart through endless brightly lit aisles, throwing in what she thought was necessary: organic yogurt, avocado, salmon, greens. Food for one. Food for a successful and lonely person.

And then she saw them.

They were in the checkout line right in front of her. A young couple. He was about twenty-eight, she was probably the same. He was in a simple T-shirt and worn jeans, she was in a loose floral dress. But that wasn’t the main thing. The main thing was how he touched her. He didn’t have his arm around her shoulders, no. He placed his palm on her stomach. On her rounded, clearly noticeable stomach. And he looked at that stomach with such tender, such boundless adoration that Nastya’s breath caught. She stared at his hand, large, strong, resting gently on her belly as if he were already embracing and protecting his unborn child.

And she, the expectant mother, looked at him and smiled. It wasn’t just a smile. It was a radiance. Absolute, unconditional happiness. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt, fear, or fatigue in her eyes. Only love, trust, and a calm, animal certainty in the rightness of what was happening.

In that moment, they weren’t just a couple. They were a cosmos. A whole universe, closed in on themselves, on their mystery. They noticed no one around them, not the crowd, not the noise, not Nastya, who watched them, mesmerized, with a lump in her throat.

Their cart wasn’t filled with avocado and salmon. It was packed with packets of cookies, pasta with funny shapes, colorful yogurts, a bunch of fruit, and a huge box of chocolates. Food for happiness. Food for life.

They paid, he still didn’t remove his hand from her belly, and they walked towards the exit, merged into one, in their own little world.

Nastya stood rooted to the spot, letting other shoppers go ahead. Her hands suddenly started to shake. She swallowed back tears that frightened her. Why? Why did this sight cause her such physical pain? Why did her heart constrict with delight for them and with burning, piercing envy at the same time?

She paid hurriedly, threw the bags onto the passenger seat, and drove home. The sight of her perfect apartment, which she returned to, brought a new wave of anguish. It was quiet, clean, sterile. And dead.

She put the groceries in the fridge, finally made some tea, and collapsed on the sofa. Her hands reached for the tablet on their own. She didn’t go on social media. No. She opened the browser and, with a sinking heart, as if doing something forbidden, typed into the search bar: «female fertility after 35.»

Hundreds of articles poured out. Charts, curves, percentages. Words like «sharp decline,» «age-related infertility,» «risk of chromosomal abnormalities,» «difficulty conceiving,» «early menopause.» The numbers and facts crashed down on her, cold and merciless, like a bucket of ice water.

«After age 35, a woman’s ability to conceive begins to decline significantly…»

«The chances of getting pregnant naturally each cycle after 35 are less than 10%…»

«The risk of miscarriage increases to 25%…»

«After 38, there is a sharp decline in egg quality…»

She read, and she was thrown from hot to cold. This wasn’t just a wake-up call. This was an alarm bell. A siren, deafening, relentless. Her internal clock, which until now had only quietly reminded her of itself, suddenly began to boom like a bell, filling all the space around her.

She shoved the tablet away, jumped up, and began pacing the room like a trapped animal. Her hands were shaking. Her breath came in short gasps. Before her eyes flashed the spilled juice and the child’s frightened eyes, the man’s hand on his wife’s pregnant belly, the numbers and charts from the articles.

Panic. Pure, uncontrollable, animal panic. She was seized by a feeling that she was too late. That while she was building her career, buying designer clothes, and driving an expensive car, life was passing her by. The most important thing – the ability to give life to another person – was slipping away from her irrevocably.

She ran to the large mirror in the hallway and stared at her reflection. A beautiful face. Well-groomed. Expensive makeup highlighting her cheekbones and lips. And an utterly empty, frightened gaze.

«What have I done?» she whispered to her reflection. «What have I done?»

And in the silence of the apartment, she again fancied she heard that steady, relentless sound. No longer a ticking, but the heavy, resonant toll of enormous clocks counting down her last chances. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Chapter 3: The Wrong Knight

The week after the ill-fated birthday party at Marina’s and the panic attack in the hypermarket passed in a kind of foggy, automatic mode. Nastya functioned like a programmed robot: meetings, calls, reports. But inside, she was still ringing from that alarm bell, and every night she was haunted by nightmares where she was trying to catch a departing train while her feet were glued to the platform, or she was dropping and shattering crystal clocks that exploded at her feet into millions of shard-seconds.

She had almost stopped going on social media. The sight of other people’s smiles and other people’s children caused physical pain. She barricaded herself behind the glass walls of her office and the armored windows of her car. But the walls were transparent, and through them, she still saw that very life she didn’t have.

It was in this state – internally hollowed out but outwardly collected and cold – that Vadim found her.

They crossed paths at a meeting on the post-implementation of that fateful project. Vadim was a financial consultant invited by the partners. Nastya knew him by face and reputation. Vadim Sokolov. Established. Reliable. One of those men people said had «a runway built for takeoff.» Around forty-five, with graying temples that didn’t age him but added distinction, and a piercing, appraising gaze of a man accustomed to having his opinions command high prices.

The meeting proceeded as usual. Nastya delivered her report, Vadim asked a few precise, insightful questions about the budget, demonstrating he’d grasped the essence deeper than many present. He was respected; his opinion was valued. And Nastya caught herself feeling that his calm, unhurried confidence was like a balm to her. There was no room for panic around him. Around him, there were only numbers, facts, and ironclad logic.

As everyone was packing up, he approached her.

«Nastasya, brilliant work,» he said, and his voice held not a trace of obsequiousness or flattery. It was a statement of fact. «Rarely do I see such thorough risk assessment. It commands respect.»

«Thank you, Vadim,» she nodded, feeling a strange need for this approval. Not from a boss, but from an equal. A strong player. «We try.»

«It shows,» he smiled. His smile wasn’t broad, but it was sincere. «Allow me to suggest we continue this discussion in a more informal setting. Over dinner, for example. I have a couple of thoughts on optimization, but they’d be out of place here.»

It was delivered so elegantly, framed as a business proposal, that it was impossible to refuse. Not that she wanted to. After a week of exhausting loneliness, the offer from an intelligent, attractive man seemed like a lifeline.

«With pleasure,» she replied, and for the first time, her own smile didn’t require effort.

He chose the restaurant. Not the most pompous in the city, but one that spoke of money – old, established money. Quiet Bordeaux, steaks cooked to perfection, impeccable service where waiters anticipated desires. Vadim was in his element here. He ordered wine without looking at the menu, naming the year and producer, and the sommelier nodded respectfully.

Nastya, usually confident in such places, felt a bit constrained today. His confidence was of a different order. Not acquired, like hers, but innate.

They talked about work, the market, future plans. His «thoughts on optimization» turned out to be brilliantly simple and effective. He spoke, and she listened, hanging on his every word. He was an interesting conversationalist, well-read, with a fine sense of humor that never crossed into familiarity.

Gradually, the conversation turned more personal. He talked about his passion for windsurfing, his travels, his safari in Africa. His stories were vivid but… devoid of madness. Everything was planned, safe, considered. Even surfing – he did it at reputable resorts with the best instructors.

He asked about her. Her interests. And Nastya realized with horror that she had almost nothing to say. Her life consisted of work and rare attempts to force herself into the gym or an exhibition to «keep up.» Her travels were business trips. Her hobbies were reading professional literature and watching arthouse films to flaunt her erudition in the right circles.

She felt boring and empty next to him. And it made her talk more, try to seem more interesting, which came off as unnatural. He listened attentively, nodded, but in his eyes, she read mild surprise. He seemed to expect more depth from her or, conversely, more lightness.

«You are an extraordinary woman, Nastasya,» he said, pushing aside his dessert plate, which he had barely touched. «Driven, intelligent, beautiful. A rare combination.»

«But?» she asked mentally, expecting a catch.

«I’ve always been interested in women who know what they want from life,» he continued, and his gaze became intent, studying. «It’s a rarity these days. Many just go with the flow. You, however, are the captain of your ship. It’s admirable.»

He was saying all the right things. The very things she had been repeating to herself for years. Why did they sound so flat coming from his lips? Like a learned mantra of success.

«Sometimes you want to leave the captain’s bridge,» she surprised herself by admitting. «And just… sail. Without rushing anywhere.»

He smiled, but his smile held the condescension of an adult towards a child’s whim.

«That’s an illusion, Nastasya. If you leave the bridge, the ship will veer off course or hit the reefs. Discipline and control are what distinguish a successful person from a failure.»

He said it with such unshakable confidence that arguing was pointless. Not that she wanted to. His words had an iron logic. The logic she herself had always tried to follow. Why did it provoke a faint protest in her today?

He offered to drive her home. His car – an expensive but understated sedan – smelled of expensive leather and freshness. The interior was impeccably clean. Not a speck of dust, not a stray piece of paper. Like her apartment. Like her life.

He drove confidently and calmly, without fuss, without cutting anyone off, without breaking the rules. The perfect driver. The perfect man. On paper.

When they pulled up to her building, he turned off the engine and turned to her.

«Nastasya, I’ll be frank with you. I like you. I believe we are from the same circle, of the same mind, and, importantly, share the same life aspirations. I don’t like long games and uncertainties. I am accustomed to setting goals and achieving them.»

He paused, giving her time to absorb his words. His speech was as precise as a financial report.

«I am at an age where a man wants not fleeting romances, but solid relationships. A family. Children. I can provide my woman and future children with a decent standard of living. Stability. Confidence in the future. I see in you a potential partner who will share not only leisure time with me but all life goals.»

He didn’t speak of love. He didn’t speak of feelings. He spoke of goals, plans, and partnership. It was a marriage proposal voiced as a commercial offer for a merger of two successful companies.

And the most terrible thing was that this offer seemed the only rational way out of the dead end she found herself in. Vadim was the solution to all her problems. He offered her everything: status, security, a family. That very stability her panic-stricken soul yearned for.

He was the perfect match on paper. But when he took her hand, his fingers were cool and dry. And her heart didn’t beat faster. No butterflies fluttered in her stomach. There was no desire to touch him, no mad thought to kiss him right then, in the car, breaking all his and her rules.

There was only cold, sober calculation. And a quiet but persistent inner voice whispering: «No. Not him. Not like this.»

«Vadim, this is… very unexpected,» she found her words, carefully freeing her hand. «You’re suggesting we skip all the stages of dating and go straight to serious plans.»

«Why drag it out?» he genuinely didn’t understand. «We are both adults, intelligent people. We can assess the potential of a relationship immediately. I’ve assessed mine. And I like it.»

«Potential.» What a soulless word.

«I need to think,» she said, feeling cornered by his iron logic.

«Of course,» he nodded, showing neither disappointment nor impatience. «Consider my proposal. I am confident you will make the right decision. The rational one.»

He got out of the car to open her door. His movements were gallant and flawless. He walked her to the entrance, kissed her hand – his dry, cold lips touched her skin, leaving no trace, no memory.

«Goodbye, Nastasya. I await your answer.»

She entered the building without looking back. Took the elevator up. Entered her apartment. Leaned against the closed door and closed her eyes.

Her mind screamed: «Yes! It’s him! The perfect option! He will solve all your problems! He will give you everything you want and are so afraid of!»

But her entire being, every cell of her body, was silent. Or screamed «no.» In a quiet but absolutely distinct voice.

She walked to the bar counter, poured herself wine – without thinking about its cost or quality – and drank it in one gulp. The alcohol burned her throat but didn’t warm the icy void inside.

She started pacing the apartment like a panther in a cage. Her gaze fell on the perfect lines of the furniture, the expensive trinkets, the abstract paintings. All of it was a symbol of her success. And her loneliness.

Vadim was offering her more. Greater success. Greater security. He was offering her to become a part of his perfect world. Another exhibit in his perfect life collection, like that vase on the shelf.

She imagined their life together. A prestigious neighborhood. Joint trips to resorts. Receptions. Children raised by nannies and governeurs, well-groomed, obedient, attending the best schools. She – the exemplary wife of a successful man. Everything would be correct. Rational. Smooth and seamless.

And she imagined his hands. Cold, well-groomed hands that would touch her with the same calculated precision he used in negotiations. Hands that would never break a glass of juice in a fit of passion, never get dirty with soil, never tremble with desire.

She imagined his features on her child. Neat, correct, cold. A child who would learn from infancy to control emotions and set goals. And her heart constricted with icy horror.

This was not the path. It was a trap. The most beautiful and reliable trap in the world, but a trap nonetheless. She felt it with every fiber of her soul. Marrying Vadim meant burying herself alive. Burying that part of her that was perhaps still capable of madness, of mistakes, of that very life with spilled juice and broken glasses which frightened her with its chaos and tantalized her with its authenticity.

She walked over to the phone. Mom. She knew what mom would say. Mom would be thrilled. Mom would worship Vadim. Mom would say: «Finally, you’ve come to your senses, daughter! Here’s your chance!»

She didn’t call.

She poured more wine. Her hand was shaking.

There was one option. Understandable, logical, correct. And it evoked in her an almost physical revulsion.

There was no second option. There was only panic, emptiness, and the ticking of the clock.

She was at an impasse. And the sparkling, diamond door Vadim had just opened for her led to the same icy, flawless emptiness she lived in now.

She remained standing by the window, looking at the city lights, which now seemed not a symbol of opportunities but millions of equally lonely windows behind which other lonely people made rational decisions and buried their dreams.

«I await your answer,» his voice echoed in her memory.

What answer could she give? The answer of reason? Or the answer of a heart that remained silent, as if dead?

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Chapter 4: Playing with Fire

The next few days passed in a state of suspended reality. The world seemed covered by a thick, soundproof glass. She heard the voices of colleagues, answered questions, attended planning meetings, but it all happened somewhere at a distance, not touching her inner core, which had tightened into a hard, painful knot.

Thoughts of Vadim’s proposal circled in her head like an obsessive carousel. Her mind supplied ironclad arguments: «stability,» «security,» «a secure future for the child,» «the solution to all problems.» She even made a mental list of pros and cons. The «pro» column had everything. The «contra» column had only one unconvincing, irrational point: «I feel nothing.» As if that even mattered in the world of adults.

She tried to imagine their wedding with Vadim. Elegant, with a minimal number of guests at some prestigious country club. Her in a couture dress, him in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. Everyone would say what a perfect couple they made. And she would be counting the minutes until the end of the reception.

She tried to imagine their daily life. Waking up in the same bed. His neat toothbrush next to hers. His newspaper at breakfast. His stories about stock market reports. Evenings by the fireplace in complete, respectable silence. These thoughts made her shiver.

One evening, once again replaying this joyless film titled «My Happy Life with Vadim» in her head, she grabbed her phone in despair and called the only person she thought might understand.

«Len, hi, it’s me,» her voice sounded strained, almost hoarse.

«Nast? What’s wrong?» Lena, her colleague and unofficial confidante, immediately caught the notes of panic. Lena was a single mother and possessed that practical, calm wisdom Nastya so lacked.

Nastya, stumbling and confused, spilled the story about Vadim. About his perfect proposal. About her confusion. She expected Lena, who knew all the «joys» of single motherhood, to say: «Are you crazy to refuse? Grab him and run to the registry office!»

But Lena was silent for a moment, then asked quietly:

«But do you want him?»

«What do you mean?» Nastya was confused.

«Well, in the simplest, most animal sense. Do you want him to touch you? Kiss you? Do you want to wake up next to him not because it’s the right thing, but because you can’t imagine otherwise? You see, Nast, all these arguments of reason… they turn to dust if there’s no simple human chemistry between you. A child is forever. And the man who fathered it is forever, too. Are you ready to bind yourself to this particular man for life? Even if you divorce, he will always be the father of your child. This isn’t a business contract.»

Lena’s words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. It was a view from the other side of the barricades. From someone who had already walked the path of choice and its consequences.

«I don’t know,» Nastya admitted honestly. «I don’t feel anything. Only fear and… cold.»

«Then don’t do it,» Lena said firmly. «Don’t marry fear. And especially not coldness. It’s worse than loneliness. Believe me.»

After the conversation with Lena, she felt a little better. The fear didn’t go away, but it ceased to be the only option. A ghost of an alternative appeared. Vague, frightening, but her own.

And it was at that moment that a message arrived on her work phone. Not from Vadim – he called in the evenings, his calls were as predictable as sunrise. It was from Yegor, an old university acquaintance, a party animal and organizer of all sorts of gatherings.

«Nast, hey! Having a small party at my place tomorrow for my birthday. My usual crowd, a couple of interesting people from the art scene. Stop by if you’re free. Missed ya!»

Usually, Nastya would brush off such invitations. Noisy parties, strangers – it wasn’t her thing. But now the offer sounded like a lifeline. A chance to break out of the vicious circle of her thoughts. To run away from herself. From the silent phone that was about to buzz again with a reminder of the «rational decision.»

She replied almost without thinking: «Sounds great! What time?»

The party was in full swing when she, running a bit late, arrived at Yegor’s loft in one of the converted factory buildings. Music poured from the windows – not loud pop, but something bluesy with a husky saxophone part. The door was ajar.

Inside reigned that very creative chaos her life lacked and that she was so desperately afraid of. A buzz of voices, laughter, the clinking of glasses filled the air. It was thick with the smell of wine, cheese, and something else – freedom, carefreeness? People stood in clusters, gesturing, arguing about something, lounging on big leather sofas or right on the floor on scattered cushions. There were no expensive suits or bored glances here. There were sweaters with holes in the elbows, bright dresses, beards, bold jewelry. It smelled of life, not money.

Nastya froze at the entrance for a moment, feeling out of place again, but differently this time. She was too «put together,» too proper for this place. Her expensive but restrained outfit screamed of another world.

Yegor spotted her, threw his hands up joyfully, and rushed over, hugging and kissing her on the cheek.

«Nast! You came! I thought you’d blow me off again, like always, because of my asocial lifestyle! Mingle, socialize, drink! Mi casa es su casa!»

He shoved a glass of red wine into her hand and dissolved into the crowd. She pressed herself against the wall, sipping the wine slowly and observing. And it was at that moment she saw him.

He was standing a little apart, leaning against the windowsill, arguing with two girls. Tall, in a worn leather jacket, with unruly dark curls and eyes that even from a distance seemed incredibly alive and mocking. He wasn’t just talking – he was living every word, his hands tracing shapes in the air, his face expressing feigned outrage, then delight. The girls looked at him, mesmerized.

He was the complete opposite of Vadim. Vadim was a statue – perfect, cold, finished. This man was fire – untamed, dangerous, alive.

Their eyes met across the room. Nastya felt a shiver run down her spine. He didn’t just look at her. He seemed to scan her, saw all her stiffness, her inappropriateness, her inner panic – and smiled. The smile wasn’t just friendly. It was understanding and slightly challenging. As if he were saying: «I know you’re a stranger here. And I find that interesting.»

He said something to the girls and headed towards Nastya. He moved easily, with a slight swagger, filling the space around him.

«Lost?» he asked, stopping in front of her. His voice was low, slightly husky, as if he’d been laughing a lot.

«More like… took a wrong turn,» she found herself saying, surprising herself with the answer.

«That’s the beauty of it,» he grinned. «You can always find something you weren’t looking for. I’m Sergei.»

«Nastya.»

«Nastya,» he repeated, and her name in his mouth sounded new, unfamiliar, and enticing. «So what brings you, Nastya, to our den of sin? Running from boredom? A thirst for adventure? Or the mundane need to forget?»

He spoke with such directness it didn’t seem tactless. It seemed like he saw right through her.

«A combination of all the above, I suppose,» she smiled, and to her surprise, the smile was genuine.

«The perfect state,» he concluded. «Which means you’re exactly where you need to be.»

He turned out to be a photographer. Not commercial, shooting for glossies, but an artistic one. He told her about his projects – a series of portraits of elderly people in abandoned villages, shooting in the Far North, living in a monastery for a month to catch «that» light. His world was full of color, emotion, risk. He spoke of nearly drowning while shooting a storm and sleeping in a haystack to capture a sunrise over a field.

She listened, enchanted. Her world was built with a ruler. His – seethed like a mountain river. He didn’t ask her about her work, her career. He asked what music made her cry, what country she would escape to if anything was possible, if she believed in love at first sight.

They stood by that wall for over an hour, and for Nastya, time lost its linearity. It flowed rapidly, then slowed to a complete stop. She caught herself laughing at his jokes – loudly, sincerely, forgetting how it looked from the side. She argued with him about art, and he didn’t yield, ignited by the argument, his eyes sparkling, and she felt something long forgotten awakening in her – zest, excitement, interest.

He was all wrong. Completely wrong. He was the wind that could destroy all her fragile constructions. He was a bad investment. A potential catastrophe.

And she couldn’t look away.

At some point, he suggested: «Listen, it’s stuffy in here. Want to go for a walk? I know a place nearby with a killer view of the city.»

And she, who never went for «walks» with strange men, nodded: «Yes.»

They stepped outside. The night air was cool and intoxicating. He led her not along the main streets but through alleys and courtyards until they reached an old, disused fire watchtower.

«Come up with me,» he said, and there was a challenge in his voice.

«But it’s closed.»

«Exactly why,» he grinned and somehow unlocked the massive door with an old pick he pulled from his pocket. «Skills from a past life,» he explained mysteriously.

She laughed. This was madness. But she followed him up the dark, dusty stairs, her heart pounding not from fear but from anticipation.

They emerged at the very top, onto the observation deck. From here, the city was different – not ceremonial, not shiny, but infinitely alive, pulsating with millions of lights. The wind tugged at her hair, and she breathed in deeply, feeling some internal grip that had been squeezing her for weeks finally loosen.

«Beautiful, huh?» he asked, standing beside her. «Like a living organism. See its heart beating?»

She looked at the lights and was silent. She felt his closeness. Heard his breathing. And her whole body was taut like a string.

«I noticed you the second you walked in,» he said quietly, not looking at her. «You were standing by the door, so… proper. And so lost. Like the wind blew you here from another dimension.»

«Almost,» she whispered.

He turned to her. His face was illuminated by the city’s reflections – now in shadow, now in light. He wasn’t classically handsome. But there was a magic to him, charged with life, energy, unpredictability.

«And in your dimension… is it boring?» his voice was almost a whisper.

«Very,» she exhaled.

«And scary?»

«Terrifying.»

He slowly, giving her time to pull away, reached out and touched her cheek. His fingers were warm, alive, slightly rough. His touch sent shivers down her skin, and a familiar, long-forgotten flutter awoke in her stomach.

«Is this scary too?» he asked, looking straight into her eyes.

She shook her head, unable to utter a word. No. This wasn’t scary. This was… alive.

He leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t a polite, tentative kiss. It was a kiss-statement. A kiss-claim. Full of the taste of wine, the night, and absolute, reckless freedom. There wasn’t an ounce of calculation in it, not a gram of doubt. Only pure, concentrated passion.

And she responded. For the first time in years, she stopped thinking. Stopped analyzing. She just felt. Felt the warmth of his lips, the firmness of his hands holding her waist, the beating of his heart in time with her own.

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