Bound by lies Trapped by Desire novel Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Nikolai’s POV:

.

The message blinked on my phone screen, a terse line from one of my informants: “She slapped Lazar Morozov.”

I stared at it, my thumb hovering over the screen. Lazar Morozov? The name was familiar, but only in passing. He was Sergei Morozov’s younger brother–the only one still alive, if memory served. A peripheral figure, someone who kept to himself and rarely attended family events. But he was known to be a close friend of Dmitri, often seen at his birthday parties.

What could he have possibly said to provoke Elena to such an extent?

My fists clenched involuntarily as I turned to gaze out the window. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cityscape. The golden hues of dusk bathed the buildings in a warm glow, but I felt none of its serenity.

Elena had called earlier, mentioning she’d visit after seeing her mother, around eight. But now, an urge stirred within me- a need to see her, to ensure she was okay. I decided to surprise her in

I gathered my belongings, shutting down

down my laptop and slipping into my suit jacket. On the way, I stopped by the supermarket, picking out a selection of fresh fruits. The familiarity of the task grounded me, offering a brief respite from my swirling thoughts. I picked berries, tangerines, sweet melon and mangoes. She loved mangoes, I knew that.

Driving through the city, I eventually reached a neighborhood that seemed untouched by time. Rows of quaint houses lined the streets, each with its own unique charm. Chimneys adorned the rooftops, and the scent of home–cooked meals wafted through the air. It felt like stepping into a scene from a 90s movie.

I parked my black Mercedes–a stark contrast to the modest surroundings–and approached the house. Dressed in my office attire, I felt slightly out of place, but the anticipation of seeing Elena overshadowed any discomfort.

I rang the doorbell, the chime echoing softly. Moments later, the door opened, revealing Elena. She looked surprised, her eyes mine. She was dressed in a…I paused trying to remember the word. Ah, yes. Kurti.

wide as

they

met

A lavender kurti–a traditional Indian tunic—paired with matching cotton trousers. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders, slightly Reaching below her hips.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice tinged with surprise.

I couldn’t help but smile. “Aren’t you going to invite your husband in?”

From inside, a voice called out, “Who is it?” It was obviously Beatrix by the sound of it.

“it’s just Niko,” Elena replied, her tone casual.

sled

Just Niko. The nickname warmed me. Only my mother had ever called me that, and hearing it from Elena…didn’t sound wrong. Unlike when other people tried to call me that I didn’t understand why that was. Why did her calling me Niko make me feel so good? Horny in the bedroom and warm when she said it outside casually.

Even though I knew this frankness of her’s was also calculated. If she’d called me Nikolai in front of her mom then it wouldn’t have seemed intimate, would have probably made her mother suspicious. That’s what annoyed me though. She never called me Niko when we were alone, except for when we we fucked. Always using my full name.

She stepped aside, allowing me to enter. The first thing that came to mind as I did was that the house was cozy, with a narrow corridor leading to a staircase and two passageways–one to the living room and the other to the kitchen. The aroma of spices filled the air, making my stomach rumble. Reminding me I had missed lunch.

“Are you cooking?” I asked, glancing at her.

She nodded, “Oh, yeah. I just put something on the stove awhile ago. I was doing my hair before you arrived. You should take a seat here.”

As she spoke, her mother walked out of the living room, smiling warmly. It was surprising, considering our last encounter had been tense. But perhaps the recent events had softened her stance. I returned her smile and hugged her gently. Her eyes landed on the fruit basket I held, and she

beamed.

Elena, take this to the kitchen and bring something to drink,” she said.

Elena took the basket from my hands and vanished into the kitchen, the soft shuffle of her slippers disappearing down the hallway. Beatrix turned to me with a small, polite smile and gestured toward the living room.

“Come, have a seat. Oh, and take your shoes off please.” she said warmly, her voice lighter than I remembered it being days ago. Not that I missed the steel it once held..

I took off my oxfords next to the place where three other pairs of shoes were set.

1/2

8:42 PM

I followed her into the living room, my footsteps echoing faintly on the polished wooden floor. As I stepped in, the first thing I noticed smell–warm, spiced, familiar in a way I couldn’t explain. Like cardamom and turmeric soaked in something sweeter.

was the

The space was modest but carefully curated, like everything had been given immense thought. The Scandinavian undertones were impossible to miss–lightwood furniture with sleek lines, woven rugs in shades of beige and dusty rose, and potted greenery softening the corners of the room. Minimalistic floor lamps cast a warm glow over everything, giving the entire place a lived–in kind of serenity.

But there were other details too–details that didn’t belong to the Nordic design books you see in upscale catalogues.

On the far wall, a large framed calligraphy piece written in what I guessed was Arabic hung just above the mantel, the strokes fluid and elegant. In the corner sat a low, carved brass incense burner, and beside it, a clearly hand–painted ceramic bowl that looked like it had traveled across oceans to get here.

A tray of dates sat beside a decorative lantern on the coffee table–clearly old, its bronze oxidized at

the edges.

Then there were the family photos–dozens of them lining a narrow wooden ledge mounted on the wall. Some were in black and white, others vibrant with age. I spotted a younger Elena in one, smiling beside a man who looked like her and not at all like her. Maybe it was the smile?

Beatrix lowered herself onto the couch then patted the seat beside her. I sat, the cushion dipping slightly beneath my weight. The silence wasn’t awkward–just suspended, waiting to be filled.

Moments later, Elena reappeared with a round silver tray in her hands, the kind engraved with floral vines you’d expect to see in old Middle Eastern homes. Balanced on it was a delicate glass teacup and a small ceramic bowl filled with sugar cubes.

She set the tray down on the coffee table and handed me the cup, the steam curling up

“Chai latte?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I wrapped my fingers around the warm glass.

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