Page 1 of Beautifully Deranged

?Chapter One?

Lola

I don’t ask for what I want. I take it. From the moment I could speak, I knew how to twist the world to my liking, how to make everything bend to my will, to my whims. And along the way, I learned to push everything and everyone away.

When I was nine, Father told me I couldn’t have the toy rifle because “it’s for boys.” He quickly learned that no one tells me no. I screamed until his resolve cracked. Until he caved. After that, he understood that with me, it was always about winning. About making him see I always get what I want. He never said no again.

In high school, my painting didn’t fit some mold. “Flawed,” the teacher said, sneering as she told me it wouldn’t be entered in the art competition. I dragged every flaw she’d buried in her own life to the surface. Every regret. Every failure. She quit the job shortly after. I just kept painting.

Then there was the nanny. She told me I couldn’t have more cookies because I was getting fat. So I pointed out every flaw on her skin, every ugly mark she tried to hide with makeup. It made her squirm, and it made me smile. I ate my cookies after. Because I could. Because I always can.

Father didn’t get it. He brought in therapist after therapist, thinking some label would fix me. OCD. Antisocial personality disorder. Some spectrum of autism. A bunch of fancy terms for someone who simply takes what they want. And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve taken it all. I’ve earned it all.

And now, I want him.

Mikhail Volkov.

The bane of my existence. The only man who’s ever made me feel something more than desire for things that can be bought or controlled. He’s the first person who’s captured my attention without even trying. That makes him dangerous.

When I told Father I wanted to move to New York to build my art career, I never expected to end up obsessing over my next-door neighbor instead. The best thing Father ever did for me was set me up in one of the most luxurious apartments money can buy. It’s where I met Mikhail. The man I’ve always fantasized about finally has a face, and now, it’s his. Truthfully, Father couldn’t send me away fast enough. That’s what happens when your personality is too much. People stop liking you, even the ones who are supposed to love you unconditionally.

But not Mikhail.

I won’t push him away. Not now. Not ever. Because I know what I want, and I can become whatever he needs me to be. I’ll mold myself into his perfect fantasy. The sweet girl next door. The seductive temptress. The one who won’t let him go.

I watch him and I don’t hide it. My eyes follow the way he moves through the building, the way he walks with that perfect, unbothered confidence. I know everything about him. Where he works. What time he comes and goes. How he spends his evenings, always in the gym or on long, solitary walks. The way his shirt rides up after a run, showing off those perfect abs and that delicious happy trail. I’ve memorized it all.

Is it stalking?

I tell myself it’s not. I’m not following him. I’m just… crossing the same paths. So what if I take a walk at the exact time he leaves the building? So what if I linger near the coffee shop, hoping to see him across the street, knowing when his car pulls up? I’m not stalking. I’m just breathing the same air, standing in the same space.

Is that really so wrong?

He’s gone most days. Comes back at exactly six thirty in the evening like clockwork. But sometimes, he disappears for days. Business trips? Maybe.

When he’s gone, the silence in the building feels different. Empty. Too quiet. I tell myself it’s fine. He’s busy. He’s important. Running a leading construction company can’t be easy. But the thought creeps in. What if he’s with someone else? A girlfriend?

I imagine him smiling with her, touching her, doing everything he doesn’t do with me. I hate it. I hate it so much I feel it in my teeth. I pray he’s not. Because if he is, I want no part of it. I’m not a homewrecker; that’s my line in the sand. Watching Father cheat on my mother while she battled cancer—then watching it all come crashing down on him and his mistress—was enough proof that karma is real. And I don’t play with karma.

His mistress was found murdered in a ditch. To this day, no one knows who did it. And as for him? He was diagnosed with cancer a few months after her death. It was a rough battle, but he survived. Guess karma went a little easy on him.

The clock strikes five, snapping me out of my thoughts. It’s a ritual now. We’ve been doing this dance for days, and I’ve perfected the waiting, the anticipation.

The shower is scalding. I shave, pluck, and smooth out every little detail. Every inch of me must be perfect. After drying off, I get ready. I twist my long ginger hair into a braid, swipe on some makeup, and slip into a white bodycon dress that hugs every curve.

His presence hits like a pulse, heavy, masculine, and I instantly know he’s here. I wait until it’s seven, then knock.

He opens the door, and there he is.

My obsession. My silent craving.

“Hi,” I say, flashing a bright, sweet smile with just the right touch of innocence.

He grumbles a hello. His voice is deep, rough. I fucking love it. He’s like a bear, big, gruff, all muscle and testosterone. And I don’t say “bear” lightly. He’s easily six foot five. His biceps are the size of my thighs; and I’ve got a lot of flesh on these thighs. He’s everything a man should be. Perfect.

“May I please have some sugar?” I ask, my voice sticky-sweet as I toss my hair over my shoulder, just enough to show off a little more cleavage. “I ran out. I wanted to bake something sweet.”

He turns around and grabs the sugar, handing it to me without a smile or a word.

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