in the air,
And the weight of forgetting, of grief laid bare.
How I miss it… too late, I now see it so clear!
How I long for those days by the harbour, so dear.
How I miss all the lessons of life, love, and trust,
How I miss your presence in this house turned to dust.
That era, a shadow, your memory it keeps,
The hearts now in sorrow, in silence it weeps.
As if life was a dream, passing swift as I blinked,
Like scenes ever-changing, one by one interlinked.
I can’t believe it – I refuse to believe—
How brief and how endless this world can deceive.
A world that once held us, now bids us goodbye,
You closed the door softly, no keys left to try.
Through twilight we wander, like children, astray,
Since you’ve left us to follow your chosen way.
You altered my fate when you led me to him,
The one who was cherished, now lost in life’s whim.
You left as he did – elegant, strong—
Your photograph lingers, where my heart belongs.
CHAPTER 3. THE BOND OF PURPOSE AND TRUST
Words can wound, they can judge, they can kill,
They do not console, but their sting lingers still.
Life, so fragile, succumbs to deceit,
A salted branch piercing, a wound left to bleed.
No doubts are concealed, they openly thrive,
In the lace of oblivion, secrets survive.
I bow in repentance to the Virgin above,
While you clasped my heart in your claws with false love.
A tear powerless falls down my cheek’s pale line,
My heart surrendered, begging to forget in time.
Forget that paths can exist between every word,
Forgive, and believe in life and love restored.
Forget selfish pride, like a monk in his prayer,
Exalting those who dare to defy despair.
Winter has passed, and with it, the pain
That burned through my heart like an endless refrain.
Farewell, yet I won’t say, “I forgive,”
For my sorrow departs as long as I live.
Winter’s cold steps, sharp and unkind,
Tread the streets and pierce the mind.
Farewell, yet I won’t say, “I forgive,”
But my heart breathes once more, seeking strength to relive.
Words, words—boundless creations they be,
Without pain or sweetness, words cannot be free.
Gone is the time when words inspired our way,
Like Danko’s flame leading through disarray.
No shame in his courage, no lie in his prose,
No envy, no sloth to trample others’ woes.
Bitter words of sorrow, borne by hands not your own,
Are for those who toil, who shape life from stone.
For when night and day are consumed by your fire,
To craft, to create, to love and aspire,
To carve just a moment where the heart’s aflame,
Where the soul shines through eyes and the world feels the same.
Spring has arrived, and with it, a joy,
That burns through my heart like love’s envoy.
Farewell, but now I’ll say, “I forgive,”
For my love moves forward, learning to live.
In my life, words have been both weapon and shield, but with Konstantin, they became something far greater – a battlefield. Each exchange was a masterclass in precision and intent, where his unyielding determination collided with my equally steadfast resolve.
Every conversation with him was a duel of wills. He sought to breach the walls I had so meticulously built, to strip away the professional veneer I wore like armour. His words were carefully chosen, designed to provoke, to challenge, and to uncover the truths I held beneath my composed exterior. But I was no stranger to such games. I fortified my walls further, strengthened by professionalism, detachment, and an innate instinct to guard my independence.
Ours was no ordinary dynamic. It was a contest of fire and strength – a duel between the lion and the panther. Every encounter tested the limits of our control, pushing us to the brink of our endurance. Yet the ultimate question remained unanswered: whose resolve would break first? And at what cost? For in this game, the stakes were not merely ambition, but the fragile sanctity of unbroken hearts and lives.
THE CALL THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
The call came unexpectedly, its tone firm yet imbued with unmistakable purpose.
“Eugénie,” Konstantin began, his voice smooth and commanding, each word delivered with intention. “I shall be away for a few days. Upon my return, I wish for us to meet. Tell me – what cuisine do you prefer?”
There was no preamble, no courtesies – only the quiet assurance of a man accustomed to shaping outcomes. His audacity was striking, but I refused to be unbalanced. After a brief pause, I replied, “Russian, naturally. It is impossible to forget the comforts of home. But I would prefer to meet in the office. We can arrange the time now.”
“Don’t tell me you skip lunch,” he countered, his tone carrying a faint trace of amusement. “Excellent. Friday, one o’clock.”
Before I could
