Tick-Tock

«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.