Vadim
"Misha, can we move a bit faster? I absolutely can't be late," I said, tearing my attention away from the contract with the Ministry of Construction and clicking my tongue in irritation as I took in the traffic jam on Barrikadnaya.
"Vadim Alexandrovich, five minutes and we'll be there," he replied confidently, almost lazily.
I preferred to drive myself—my predatory four-wheeled friend handled far better than this clumsy Bentley Continental—but today I needed a представительский car, not my flashy Maserati.
I had lunch with the new chairman of the State Housing Commission from the Ministry of Construction. I needed to make the right impression… and, of course, hand over some cash so they wouldn't throw obstacles in my way.
My development company was solid, reputable, with investors all over the world—but when had that ever stopped people from wanting a cut? Our elite residential complex was stuck at the permit stage. We were supposed to start yesterday, but delays piled on delays. A leadership change meant we had to wait it out. Hopefully, things would move faster now. I'd smooth things over with another pot-bellied bureaucrat and finally sleep peacefully.
I stepped into the restaurant Balzi Rossi and immediately ran into a massive replica of a Greek Apollo. I grimaced, thinking how officials of all kinds loved tasteless pomp: columns, statues, grapevines—and now I'd have to eat while staring at plaster genitals.
"Vadim Alexandrovich, this way, please," the advisor from the central construction department fawned over me. I regularly fed him so he'd nod along when needed. "She's already waiting."
She?! Had they really appointed a woman? I wasn't a sexist, but dealing with women was always more complicated. Too emotional.
"Victoria Sergeyevna, may I introduce the генеральный director and primary founder of the development corporation Vershina, Vadim Alexandrovich Polonsky."
He spoke, but I couldn't take my eyes off her.
Zimina? After all these years… I recognized her instantly. How could I not? My classmate. Top student. Beauty. My first love.
"Vika?" I dropped the formalities without even realizing it.
"Victoria Sergeyevna," she corrected, though her greenish eyes were smiling.
Forty minutes later, after we washed down the chef's menu with cool lavender water—and a shot of cognac for Medrinsky—we shook hands. Then we dismissed the advisor and remained alone, shedding the masks of strangers.
"You recognized me right away?" Vika asked with a smile. I nodded, studying her thoughtfully. "Have I really not changed? It's been over fifteen years…"
Had she changed? Of course. At seventeen, she didn't have that piercing gaze, that fluid grace… or that body. Yes, I was a man, and a figure like that couldn't go unnoticed. But her hazel-green eyes, golden skin, and smile were the same.
"You have," I said slowly, weighing every word. "But I remember you too well."
She blushed slightly—probably thinking I had never forgotten her. No, Madam High-Ranking Official, I hadn't spent years thinking about you. But I couldn't deny—it was a pleasant encounter. We'd parted badly, but time had cooled teenage emotions. Seeing someone from so long ago—someone who had once mattered—was… good.
"And you?" she asked, openly studying me.
"Changed for the worse?" I raised an eyebrow.
"No," she said thoughtfully. "Age only improves men. Unlike women."
I laughed. Fishing for a compliment? I'd give it—and not out of politeness. Zimina was stunning: vivid, full-bodied beauty mixed with irresistible femininity. Thirty-five, just like me, and still in full bloom.
"You're very beautiful, Victoria Sergeyevna," I teased, echoing her earlier formality. "So how's life? Aside from the new job."
I truly knew nothing about her. At first, I had forbidden myself to care. Then I simply forgot. There had been a lot of women… and then Malvina came along, and everything changed.
"It's been… different," Vika replied vaguely. "I lived in France, graduated from an art school. Studied architecture. Fell in love with an Italian."
"In Paris? With an Italian?" I couldn't help the sarcasm.
She waved it off.
"You know, European men—especially southern ones—are like children. You're either too sweet and become dependent… or too strong and crush their fragile egos."
"So what, you came back to get married?" I asked more sharply than I intended.
"No, I just… missed home. Moscow," she said, ignoring my tone. "And you? I heard you got married."
"I did. My daughter's eight now. How did you know? We haven't spoken."
"I asked my father," she said honestly. "You told me off so harshly back then… I didn't think friendship was an option."
"I was seventeen. Young. Hot-headed," I replied flatly.
We had started dating in tenth grade. The passion between us had been wild. On graduation night, while everyone greeted the sunrise on the bridge, we gave in to youthful desire. Firsts for both of us. We were young, in love… and had waited so long.
We were supposed to study in the States together. But Vika suddenly left for France. And yes—I had been cruel. Sharp, angry, abandoned. I hadn't spared her.
Another reason friendship wasn't possible—my wife. Katya wouldn't understand. She wasn't jealous, but better not tempt fate. She didn't believe in friendships between men and women. Neither did I.
"Vadim…" Vika hesitated. "I know it's late and probably unnecessary, but I wanted to tell you—I didn't get into Yale. They didn't accept me. I was too ashamed to admit it… and then we fought so badly… I just hope we can work together now. Without the past hanging over us."
What did she expect me to say? Her confession changed nothing.
"I'm not that vindictive," I said dryly.
She smiled faintly. Let me pay. Took my hand gratefully as she stood. I offered her a ride, and she agreed.
In the car, our thighs brushed—accidentally, completely unintentionally—and something stirred inside me. A flicker of memory. Of sensation.
Back then, I had no idea how deeply buried desires would twist inside me. How I would drown in forbidden passions.
My driver pulled out too sharply, but I barely noticed. I was watching her profile—the girl who had become a woman. Vika looked like a ripe fruit, full of sweetness and boldness, ripened by the sun. Copper hair, clear eyes, a breathtaking figure.
What lay beneath—I had yet to discover.
We sped onto Barrikadnaya, and I still didn't realize I wasn't heading toward the government building… but into a new world.
That the old one—clear, fragile like crystal—was about to shatter at my feet.
Would I regret it?
I didn't know.
Not yet.