Chapter 6: Scarlet Temptation
The library’s sterile quiet had become suffocating. Vanja slammed the heavy economics tome shut, the thud startling a nearby student hunched over medieval poetry. Dust motes danced in the slanted afternoon light. Max’s key felt like a live coal against her hip inside her bag, radiating heat through the canvas. She needed air. Movement. Distraction that wasn't theoretical power structures or the dangerous grey eyes haunting her.
She pulled out her phone, the screen momentarily blinding. A notification blinked – Aleksandar. The familiar pang of guilt twisted in her gut alongside a fierce surge of affection. Her anchor. Her chaos detector. She tapped his name.
"Hey, you," she answered, forcing lightness into her voice as she gathered her scattered notes. "Escaping the library dungeon. What’s up?"
Aleksandar’s voice crackled through, warm and slightly breathless, probably just off the training pitch. "Vanja! Good. Saved me. Team dinner tonight. At that ridiculously fancy place near the Hofgarten, the one with the gold leaf ceilings that make you feel poor just breathing the air? Pavarotti’s?"
Vanja froze, halfway to zipping her bag. Team dinner. Joshua. Images collided: Max’s predatory grin, Joshua’s intense focus during a match, the disciplined set of his shoulders, the way his grey eyes could hold hers with unsettling directness. Complicated Max was a forest fire; Joshua was a perfectly curated Zen garden. Both dangerous in their own ways. Joshua was taken. He was Bayern’s golden boy, a legend sculpted from discipline and talent, practically Munich royalty. Walking into his orbit right now, feeling like this? After Max? It was asking for emotional shrapnel.
"I’m… not really feeling it tonight, Alek," she hedged, slinging her bag over her shoulder, the key a heavy counterweight. "Head’s full of dissertation sludge. Plus, you know… crowds." It was a weak excuse, and they both knew it. Vanja thrived in crowds, usually.
A beat of silence. She could practically see his raised eyebrow, the knowing look he reserved for when she was being stubbornly opaque. "Vanja," he said, his voice dropping into that serious-but-gentle tone he used sparingly. "You bailed on training yesterday. Said you had 'research emergencies'. Which, knowing you, probably meant stress-baking or rewatching Bayern highlights instead of actual work." He paused. "Look, I get it. Dortmund was… something. But hiding in your books won’t make it not have happened. Come to dinner. Be my date. Please? I’m flying solo tonight, and listening to Müller’s terrible jokes without backup is borderline cruel and unusual punishment."
She started walking, the library’s hushed grandeur giving way to the busier corridor. His plea cut through her resistance. He didn’t press about Dortmund, didn’t demand details, just offered his presence. Her best friend. Her shield. And the thought of him enduring Thomas Müller’s unique brand of chaos alone was mildly horrifying.
A reluctant smile touched her lips. "Fine," she sighed, pushing through the library’s heavy main doors into the crisp Munich afternoon. Sunlight hit her, momentarily dazzling. "You win. But only to save you from Müller’s existential dread disguised as humor. And because you’re buying dessert."
His laugh was pure relief. "Deal! Anything. Just… be there. Seven sharp. They get pissy if you’re late." Another pause, this one loaded with unspoken mischief. "Wear the red one."
Vanja stopped on the steps, blinking. "The red one? Alek, it’s a team dinner, not a gala premiere. And it’s… aggressive."
"Exactly," he said, the grin audible now. "Aggressively stunning. Trust me. See you at seven." He hung up before she could argue further.
Vanja stared at the phone. Wear red. Into the lion's den, wearing the color of warning, of passion, of blood. Trust Aleksandar to weaponize her wardrobe. A flicker of defiance sparked alongside the nerves. Fine. Aggressively stunning it was.
Pavarotti’s lived up to Aleksandar’s description. Marble floors gleamed like ice underfoot, reflecting the dizzying sparkle of countless crystal chandeliers. Murmured conversations in multiple languages swirled in the air, punctuated by the delicate clink of fine china and the soft sigh of a piano being played somewhere unseen. The air smelled of truffles, expensive perfume, and quiet power. Vanja felt the eyes as soon as she entered – the maître d', the other impeccably dressed patrons. The red dress, a sleek column of bias-cut silk that clung and flowed in equal measure, plunged just low enough in the back to be dangerous and hugged every curve Aleksandar had insisted would be "aggressively stunning." Her dark blonde hair was swept up, exposing the long line of her neck. She felt exposed. Electric. The key, tucked into a tiny silk clutch, felt heavier than ever.
Aleksandar materialized from the throng near the bar, looking effortlessly sharp in a dark suit. His eyes widened appreciatively, then immediately narrowed with protective assessment. He scanned her face as he reached her. "Woah. Okay, point proven. You look…" He trailed off, searching for the right word.
"Like I’m about to cause international incident?" Vanja supplied dryly, accepting his quick, one-armed hug. She felt the slight tremor in her hands and hoped he didn’t notice.
"Like you could start a war just by walking across the room," he corrected, his voice low. His gaze sharpened. "You okay? Really?"
She forced a bright smile, slipping into the persona she wore like armor. "Peachy. Just contemplating the socioeconomic impact of truffle shavings on this menu. It’s obscene." She looped her arm through his, letting him guide her towards the private dining room tucked away at the back. "Lead the way, Pavlović. Protect me from the oligarchs and the overpriced appetizers."
The private room was quieter, but the air felt thicker. Long, polished table. Laughter and the deeper rumble of male voices. Bayern players in tailored suits, partners in elegant dresses. And there, near the head of the table, impeccably turned out, blond hair perfectly in place, was Joshua Kimmich.
He was mid-conversation with Müller, but as Aleksandar guided Vanja in, Joshua’s head turned. His grey eyes, sharp and intelligent, locked onto her with the same focused intensity he brought to dissecting a midfield. The easy smile he’d been wearing froze, then vanished, replaced by a look of pure, arrested surprise. His gaze swept over the red dress, a slow, deliberate appraisal that felt like a physical touch, lingering for a fraction too long on the exposed curve of her back. Every nerve in Vanja’s body crackled. He wasn't supposed to look at her like that. Not when his girlfriend – a slim, plain brunette Vanja had seen in society pages, embodying safe predictability – was seated beside him, chatting animatedly with another player's partner.
Vanja quickly looked away, focusing on finding her name card. Aleksandar squeezed her arm subtly. "Told you," he murmured, a hint of satisfaction in his voice, pulling out her chair.
Dinner was an exercise in controlled chaos. Vanja deployed her wit like a scalpel, deflecting Müller’s increasingly surreal anecdotes with sarcastic precision, engaging in a heated but good-natured debate with Leon Goretzka about Bundesliga tactics, laughing a touch too loudly at jokes. She was performing. Brilliantly, she hoped. Inside, she was a live wire, hyper-aware of Joshua’s presence down the table. She felt his gaze flicker towards her throughout the meal – when she argued a tactical point, when she threw her head back laughing, when she absently traced the stem of her wine glass. Each glance was a jolt. Disciplined, strict Joshua Kimmich, looking at her with an intensity that bordered on hunger. It was a different kind of danger than Max’s raw menace. This was the danger of crossing an invisible, impeccably maintained line. The danger of wanting something pristine that wasn’t yours.
Aleksandar kept up a steady stream of commentary beside her, his own perceptive eyes missing nothing. "He can’t stop looking at you," he muttered under his breath during a lull, swirling his mineral water.
"Who?" Vanja asked, feigning ignorance, spearing a piece of asparagus with slightly more force than necessary.
Alek just gave her a look. "The man currently radiating enough tension to power the stadium lights. The one whose girlfriend is starting to look a bit… confused." He nudged her foot under the table. "Be careful, Dušo."
The warning was gentle but firm. Vanja took a large gulp of her wine. Careful? When had she ever been careful? She thought of the key, a hard, secret shape in her clutch under the table. Dortmund felt closer than ever, a dark, thrilling counterpoint to the glittering pressure of this room.
As dessert plates were cleared, Vanja excused herself to the restroom, needing a moment to breathe air that wasn’t thick with Joshua’s unsettling attention and the weight of her own conflicting desires. The opulent ladies' room was mercifully empty. She leaned against the cool marble counter, staring at her reflection. The woman in the mirror looked fierce, beautiful, her green eyes bright with a mix of adrenaline and something darker. The red dress screamed confidence, but the slight tremor in her hand as she reapplied her lipstick betrayed her. Two worlds pulling her apart. Max’s dangerous invitation. Joshua’s forbidden intensity. And Aleksandar’s watchful concern anchoring her to a reality she suddenly felt desperate to escape.
She pulled out her phone, not the sleek one, but the older, less conspicuous one. Her thumb hovered over the only contact saved in it – the number scrawled on that cream-colored paper. Call me. The key felt cold through the silk.
The door swung open, breaking her trance. Another woman entered, smiling politely. Vanja shoved the phone back into her clutch, plastered on a smile, and left the sanctuary.
On her way back to the table, weaving through the discreetly attentive waitstaff, a figure stepped slightly into her path. Joshua. He’d broken away from his conversation near the entrance to the private room. He stood close, closer than necessary in the plush corridor. The clean scent of his cologne, something expensive and subtle, washed over her, a stark contrast to Max’s heavier, leather-and-spice signature.
"Vanja," he said, his voice low, pitched just for her. The sound of her name in his mouth, devoid of his usual teammate camaraderie, sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. His grey eyes held hers, intense, probing. "You look… different tonight."
It wasn't just an observation. It was an accusation. A recognition. As if he could see the shadow of Dortmund on her skin, feel the echo of Max’s possession. Vanja met his gaze, refusing to flinch, summoning every ounce of sarcastic deflection she possessed. "Different? Must be the lighting in here, Joshua. Or maybe just the existential dread of finishing my thesis finally showing." She offered a brittle smile. "Excuse me, the Pavlović rescue mission requires more wine."
She moved to step around him, but his hand, warm and firm, closed gently but implacably around her bare upper arm, just for a second. The contact was brief, electric. It wasn't rough like Max’s grip, but it held the same unsettling force of command. It stopped her cold.
"Different," he repeated, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a fleeting, devastating moment before snapping back to her eyes. His voice dropped even lower, a gravelly whisper that vibrated in her bones. "Intriguing." He released her arm, a ghost of his usual, polite smile returning, but his eyes remained dark, unreadable pools. "Enjoy the rest of your evening." He stepped back, clearing her path, his gaze lingering on her as she walked away, the spot where his fingers had gripped burning like a brand under the red silk.
Vanja walked back to the table on legs that felt shaky. Intriguing. He’d called her intriguing. A word loaded with danger coming from Joshua Kimmich. Aleksandar watched her approach, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes sharp with unspoken questions. She sank into her chair, reaching instantly for her wine glass, draining the last dregs. The room felt hotter, the laughter louder, the pressure immense. Max’s key felt like it was vibrating in her clutch. Joshua’s gaze felt like a physical weight on her back. Two opposing magnets. Two kinds of ruin.
As the dinner finally broke up, goodbyes echoing in the opulent space, Aleksandar leaned close. "Ready to get out of here? I’ll walk you home." His offer was a lifeline back to sanity.
Vanja looked past him. Joshua was helping his girlfriend into her coat, his movements attentive, polite. The picture of perfection. His eyes met Vanja’s across the room. Held. That intensity, banked now but still there. Intriguing.
She turned back to Aleksandar, forcing a bright, reckless smile that felt like shards of glass in her throat. She pulled the sleek phone from her clutch, the other phone. "Actually, Alek," she said, her voice unnaturally light, "I think I’m going to need something stronger than wine." She tapped the screen, finding the number. Her thumb hovered over the call button, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She met Aleksandar’s suddenly wary gaze. "Don’t wait up." Before he could protest, before sanity could reclaim her, she hit call and brought the phone to her ear, walking away from the safety he offered, towards the muffled sound of city traffic filtering through the restaurant's grand entrance. The line connected after the second ring.
"Yeah?" Max’s voice, rough, immediate, cut through the lingering perfume and piano music, dragging her back into his dark, gravitational pull.
Vanja stepped out into the cool Munich night, the opulence of Pavarotti’s at her back, the dangerous rumble of Max Perković in her ear, and the phantom feel of Joshua Kimmich’s grip still burning on her skin. The red dress felt like armor and a target. She took a deep, shaky breath, the defiance hardening into something reckless and sharp.
"Still feeling generous with that key, Perković?" Her voice was steady now, edged with a challenge she didn't entirely feel. "Munich’s feeling a little… predictable tonight." She paused, the city lights blurring before her eyes. "Tell me about feeling alive again."
The connection crackled, filled only with the low thrum of Dortmund nights and Max’s arrested breath. Munich’s chill seeped through the thin silk of her dress, a stark contrast to the heat flooding her cheeks. "Feeling alive?" His voice, when it finally came, was a rough scrape against the silence, devoid of its usual mocking edge. "Get your perfect ass back here on something faster than Deutsche Bahn, Dr. Petrović. I’ll show you alive." The line went dead.
Two hours later, the whine of the private jet’s engines faded as the stairs lowered onto a rain-slicked Dortmund tarmac. The industrial tang of the Ruhrgebiet air, heavy with distant coal dust and damp concrete, hit her lungs, a world away from Munich’s alpine crispness. Vanja descended, the ridiculous, defiant red dress whispering against her legs, her clutch clutched tight. No luggage. Just the key burning a hole in her palm and the reckless thrum of her pulse.
A low-slung black Audi R8 idled nearby, exhaust pluming in the cool air like a waiting predator’s breath. Inside, barely visible through the tinted glass, was the silhouette of Max. She walked towards it, the click of her heels unnaturally loud in the near-silence of the private terminal, echoes of Joshua’s intense gaze and his girlfriend’s polite confusion still flickering at the edges of her mind, unwelcome ghosts.
She yanked the passenger door open. Leather and something darkly spicy – oud wood and danger – enveloped her. Max sat low in the driver’s seat, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel, the other holding a cigarette out the barely cracked window. He wore simple black: a soft-looking sweater that clung to his shoulders, dark jeans. The intricate tattoos snaking up his neck and disappearing under the collar were muted shadows in the dim cabin light. He didn’t turn his head.
"Vanja," he acknowledged, his voice a low rumble. He took a slow drag, the ember flaring briefly, illuminating the hard line of his jaw.
She slid in, the supple leather sighing beneath her. The door thudded shut, sealing them in a cocoon of expensive restraint and raw tension. The red silk pooled around her thighs. Her green eyes, still smudged with the remnants of Munich-makeup defiance, fixed on his profile. The silence stretched, thick with everything unspoken from their last brutal encounter and her sudden, desperate summons.
"Max," she smiled, a sharp, challenging curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes. "You must really want to fuck me." The crudeness hung in the air, a deliberate grenade tossed into the stillness.
He froze. The cigarette paused halfway to his lips. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head. His grey eyes, the color of a Dortmund winter sky before a storm, locked onto hers. They travelled down the length of the red dress, a slow, scorching inventory that missed nothing – the plunge of the neckline, the way the silk clung to her hips, the long expanse of leg revealed by the slit. The look in his eyes wasn't hunger; it was pure, primal recognition. Acknowledgement of the challenge she’d thrown down, and the wildfire it ignited.
"You," he stated, his voice rough, stripped bare of its usual cool control, "look like fucking sin." He sounded almost dazed.
Vanja laughed, a bright, brittle sound that shattered the thick air. The absurdity of it – fleeing Joshua’s intense propriety only to plunge back into Max’s devastating chaos – hit her. "Start driving, Perković," she commanded, leaning back against the headrest, her gaze fixed ahead through the windshield at the rain-streaked tarmac lights. Her voice dropped, lower, huskier. "I can’t wait much longer."
"Fuck," he swore, a harsh, guttural sound in German. The cigarette was flicked out the window in a shower of sparks. His hand, large and warm and impossibly sure, landed high on her thigh, just below the red silk hem. His fingers pressed, not gently, claiming the bare skin. A jolt of pure electricity shot through her. The engine roared to life, a deep, predatory growl that vibrated through the seats. "Let's go." The Audi surged forward, tires spitting rainwater, accelerating into the Dortmund night. Vanja closed her eyes for a second, feeling the pressure of his hand, the brutal power of the car, the dizzying speed tearing them away from everything else. Alive. Terrifyingly, recklessly alive.