Only people who are capable of loving strongly,
Can also suffer great sorrow. -Tolstoy
"Oh, that won't be an issue," she spoke to the large, stoic man acting as her guard. "остаться здесь."
Nikita smiled in approval, "Suite 7."
Cassandra's fair features relaxed, a genuine, grateful grin giving her an almost angelic glow, "Thank you."
Shoulders back, arms clasped loosely before her, Nikita side stepped away. Walking with casual purpose towards the ladies room just to the right of the auction hall. She forced herself to breathe, ears straining to hear Michael's first words once he laid his eyes upon his old 'asset', or so he'd called her. Straightening the neckline of a plunging black suit blouse, she stared at herself in the mirror. Lips painted bold and black, she struggled to keep them from frowning, the image of the Belarussian first lady seared into her mind.
Cassandra Ovechkin was the quintessential blond beauty.
Her flaxen hair had been modestly arranged, a grey tweed dress suit somehow making her look older than her unlined face would otherwise seem. Large golden jewels around her slender neck and long fingers somehow appeared tasteful despite their obvious extravagance. She carried herself with the confidence of a queen, yet with a touch of modesty in the slope of her shoulders and the downturned lashes framing her large blue eyes.
"I knew you couldn't resist the Manet."
The low growl cut through her self-punishing recollection of their target. She could imagine him, not allowing the weakness of mere human emotion flicker across his scowling features. Leaning over one of the sinks, Nikita desperately caught every word, every inflection and change in tone – attempting to fashion a scene from his voice.
She wondered, painfully so, if he was standing up, walking towards Cassandra. She thought she heard a certain softeness as he said, I know your situation is dicey. She was sure he was running his eyes over the woman he hadn't seen these last six years, drinking her in. The same way he'd done to her almost a year ago now, in the fateful alleyway outside of the Joint-Intelligence Ball.
Just like old times, huh...?
Releasing the unconscious grip her teeth had taken to her bottom lips, she bemoaned the damage to the whites of her enamel. She recalled a line, one which had haunted her for the last three nights, leaving her tossing and turning and torn in two. He could never keep his emotions out of it, he'd said so himself. Nikita didn't blame him. Cassandra was irridescent, her simple charms impossible to miss.
And here she was, dark bags under weary eyes, skin battle scarred and worn ragged from every element both natural and man-made. No saintly glow illuminated the feet she walked on, no normality to claim as her own.
"I've a plan for exfiltra – "
The voice in her earpiece froze. She almost reached for her gun, before remembering that there was no bullet on earth that could protect Michael from her vantage point down in the restrooms. The adrenaline was something she was equal to – so much more so than the feelings of confusion and hurt and, consequently, guilt and shame, that swamped her in a cycle of uncontrollable emotion. The instinctive distrust she'd had for Ovechkin returned in full force. It was something her logical side had crushed in favour of empathy and duty, telling herself she was being blindsided by inescapable jealousy. But now Nikita couldn't help but think, or hope, that Cassandra was not all that was good and innocent.
Still the silence was sickening.
"Michael, do you copy?" the sound of her own breathless panic echoing in the tiled walls.
"Er, I need a minute," the distraction in his voice causing even greater worry to show in the wide brown eyes reflected in her mirror.
"Is there a complication?"
"Yes," her fingers wrapped around the metal in her pocket, "A little one."
Nikita furrowed her brow. Her grasp relaxed, legs automatically moving to the door. "What do you mean?"
Silence again, then a voice tinged with something inexplicable, "She has a son."
Her heart sank. Without explanation, a woman's instinct perhaps, Nikita knew, as her hand rested on the handle, already half turned, that this child was not just any child. Turning back, the hand now running through her hair, she enclosed herself inside a cubicle and sat back the toilet seat. Knees weak, barely able to breathe, eyes drooping shut in hopelessness, she whispered a quiet curse and threw her head into her hands.
"Max!" Nikita laughed, her arms reaching out to hug the boy who'd run over to show her his prize; a freshly picked flower, held out to her as a gift. "That's very pretty. Is purple your favourite colour?"
The touch of mauve in his podgy hand was forgotten as he leapt into her embrace, she lifted him to the sky, a ball of giggles with a tuft of brown hair. Two feet back on the ground, safely, though with a pout, he shook his head and proclaimed that purple was a girl's colour.
"Well then," she indulged, "What do big boys like?"
"Green!"
A jump and he was off, sprinting across the grass with little coordination, soon landing on his stomach and laughing up a storm. She had chased him, now coming up to play the role of the tickle monster. As the boy shrieked and squirmed, she couldn't help allowing a sting of regret enter the world of childhood fun. An image of another child, with darker hair, olive skin, perhaps Michael's jaw and her cheeks, blurred her sight. Blinking away tears as she noticed Max's questioning look, she forced a brave face.
"You are a very big boy. You're already four years old!"
His features crumpled, and he shook his head furiously. "I'm five."
Nikita stared at him, long and hard. Children can never hold the stares of adults if when lying but Max's was hard and strong, defiant even. Stubborn. Exactly the way his father was, whenever he thought he was right. Her sudden gloom didn't seem to affect Cassandra's son. He managed to find the abandoned flower and came back over, holding it out in the palm of his hand.
She smiled, "Thank you Max."
He beamed, racing off on another mission, completely unaware that the world had shifted and the clouds had lost their silver glint. Nikita looked down at the object between her fingers. It's stalk stood tall and strong, but it's tiny, fragile petals were wilting. She closed her fist, squeezing tightly with nails digging into her flesh. When she looked again, the flower was destroyed. Twisted and dead.
Crushed.
Procrastinating from Tease...Nikita angst is healthy for my muse (I hope) :D