Her eyes, just a second ago clouded with desire, widen in realization. She flinches, trying to pull away, but I press her against the wall, feeling her body tremble between the cold surface and my hot body.
"Where do you think you're going? We just started," my voice is hoarse, but there's no softness in it, only firmness bordering on cruelty.
"Let me go, Max. Please!" Her voice shakes, tears audible, but I am not ready to give in, not yielding to her pleas.
"How much do you want?" I ask, staring intently at her.
"What do you mean?" Her eyes dart around, as if she doesn't understand, or doesn't want to.
"Well, don't you remember?" I deliberately stretch the words, savoring her confusion.
"What am I supposed to remember?"
"You're a whore, as you said yourself. And you're ready to sell yourself for money. I have enough now to buy you. So, how much are you worth?"
Silence. So deafening it almost rings. The air thickens, heavy like before a storm. Then—a quiet sob, barely perceptible, like a crack in glass. She can't hold back anymore.
Slowly, as if half-asleep, she presses her forehead against the cold wall. The rough bathroom surface touches her skin, her shoulders shiver, first slightly, then stronger, as if under the pressure of something irresistible—pain, resentment, exhaustion.
The first hot tears roll down her cheeks, leaving wet trails, like burned marks. She doesn't cry beautifully, doesn't cry restrainedly—it's raw, alive, real. It's a pain that can't be explained with words, only felt on the skin. Katrin stands, defenseless and real, in this fragile, shattered silence. And every sob echoes in the room, breaking against the walls like waves against rocks.
"Not at all. For you—it's free," she whispers, and in her voice there's such quiet, piercing pain that my heart aches painfully.
These are not just words—it's a soul's cry wrapped in calm. Every letter she utters feels like a scratch inside me. At that moment, she seems so vulnerable, so tormented—as a person who expects neither understanding nor mercy anymore.
And suddenly it hits me: I've gone too far. Unnoticed, unfelt, I've stepped on something sacred, that thin line beyond which she can no longer pretend.
I press myself against her and hug her, cautiously, as if afraid to hurt her even more. My hands close around her fragile shoulders, and I feel her tense almost imperceptibly at first, as if she wants to pull away, to escape this touch, from me, from everything. But then—like a raindrop melting on a palm—her body begins to relax. She allows a little trust. A little warmth.
My kiss behind her ear is quiet, weightless, like a whisper from the past. There's no passion in it, no resentment—only tenderness. The tenderness that once existed between us. The one that heals, not hurts.
"Don't cry," I whisper, barely touching her skin with my lips. "I won't do anything… I promise."
And in this simple phrase there's more love and remorse than in a thousand words.
I bend down, lift her panties, and carefully help her put them back on, as if trying to erase the trace of my cruel act. I take her hand—her fingers cold and lifeless—and lead her to the mirror.
"Wash your hands and let's go back."
But Rebel Girl doesn't move. She just stands, head down, as if the whole world has become alien to her. Tears drip into the sink, one by one, leaving wet trails—reminders that pain isn't always loud, but it's always real.
I stand beside her, feeling something inside me break. I feel ashamed, a storm raging inside me—because I understand: it's my fault. I caused her this pain. I destroyed the fragile bond that still remained between us.
I sigh, lower my head, and take her hands in mine. They're cold, trembling slightly. I turn on warm water and start carefully washing her hands—slowly, almost silently, as if this could wash away not just dirt, but this whole foolish, unnecessary moment that drove us further apart. Every movement is an apology. Silent, but sincere.
Then I dry her hands with a paper towel—carefully, almost reverently, as if touching something sacred. As if afraid that if I fumble, she'll crumble. I take her hand again, feeling how little she reacts, and lead her back to the VIP area. We sit on the sofa. I don't ask, don't speak—just place her on my lap, hug her waist, and pull her closer, to me. Press her, as if wanting to shield her from everything that just happened.
Katrin doesn't resist. She doesn't pull away. But she doesn't respond either. Her silence weighs heavier than any scream. In this quiet, there's fatigue, disappointment, near hopelessness. And I feel something warm and bitter tighten inside me.
I truly feel sorry for her. And at the same time—for myself, because I don't know how to fix this. How to regain her trust, how to heal the crack that grew between us while we both pretended we were still together. I want to comfort her, say something important… but I don't know where to start. So I just hold her. Silently. As if a single touch could say more than words I've long forgotten how to say properly.
"Back already?" Alice approaches again, her voice almost sly, as if expecting an answer.
"Yes, we're back. But soon we'll go home. Right, Katrin?" I ask the girl sitting quietly on my lap, absorbed in her thoughts.
Rebel Girl just nods, not lifting her head, eyes on the floor. It's hard for me to understand what she feels, but I know it's hard for her now. Each day, her silence becomes more unsettling for me.
"I'll send you the monthly reports by email. Tim wants to sell a new type of alcohol here, by the way," Alice says, still watching me carefully. I frown slightly.
"Tell him to send me a bottle, I'll give my opinion later. Also, I want you to talk to Stas; he's selling something on the side. If he doesn't stop, I'll handle it myself," my voice is firm, but I don't want to waste energy on empty conversations. I have my own to-do list, and I won't allow any violations in my area.
"All right, Max. If that's all, I'll go."
"Yes, you can go. I'll come again in a week," I say tiredly, my words carrying fatigue, as if I just want the conversation to end and to rest.
Alice nods and leaves, without another word.
"Two days from now, Tim is having a party. We'll go there, so get ready," I say, looking at Katrin, who sits quietly beside me, her eyes fixed on her hands. There's no emotion on her face. Just emptiness. I feel her silence fall on me like a heavy boulder.
"I'm also thinking of leaving our little girl with Mom that night. What do you think?" I add, hoping to somehow bring conversation or emotion into our silent interaction.
"I don't mind, whatever you want," her voice is calm, but there's neither joy nor resolve in it. Just empty agreement. As if she doesn't care what's happening. I sigh, feeling the distance between us growing.
We drive home, but something heavy sits inside me. Katrin and I avoid each other. Our connection is like a taut string, and each day, each glance feels like another step into the abyss. What happened in the bathroom stall leaves no illusions. We try to forget it, but memory doesn't let go. It hurts me that we've become strangers and that, in a moment of emotion, I acted the way I did. I know I wouldn't want to drive her to such a state, but something in my nature doesn't allow me otherwise.
Finally, the two days pass, and when ready, we take Mary to my mom. The little girl is thrilled to see her grandmother, and I enjoy watching them bond. It's already a special friendship, and I'm glad our little one is in such a caring environment.
"What about Katrin?" my mom asks, her gaze concerned. She's always perceptive, and I know she'll notice if something's wrong.
"What do you mean?" I pretend not to understand, though everything is obvious.
"She's very quiet and sad. Is it because of me?"
"No, it's my fault this time," I feel how hard it is to say, but I need to admit my mistake. Nothing changes if you don't own up to your errors.
"You better fix this quickly," Mom advises, her words full of care, but I know changing anything now is difficult.
"This situation has lasted over three years, and it's hard to change right now," I try to justify, but even I know it's just an excuse.
We leave our little girl with Mom and drive to Tim's house for the party. It's a luxurious mansion outside the city, and everything looks as usual—expensive cars, lavish interiors, music, noise, and laughter. Here, among his gang and friends, I know there's no place for deep conversations or serious emotions. I feel the atmosphere is too bright to stay real, and I, too, become part of the disguise.
Tim always loves gathering people around him. Viktor and Vera are invited too, and I hope their presence will make things easier for Katrin. I'm nearby, thinking it might calm her a bit, but at the same time, I feel the chasm between us growing. She has stopped trusting me, and I feel it. It's a strange feeling—being close but sensing you're already losing the one you once loved. I can do nothing more until this endless cycle of pain and disappointment, in which I've lived for so many years since she left, comes to an end.