Page 17 of Beautifully Deranged

“You know,” I taunt, “people have gotten real comfortable testing us ever since I started slacking off.”

Roman doesn’t laugh at my joke, he scowls instead. “You know that sooner or later, you need to return, Mikhail,” Roman sighs. “And you like it, no matter how much you pretend otherwise.”

?Chapter Eight?

Lola

He's gone again. Days pass. No sign of him. No calls, no texts, not even a shadow of his presence lingering in my space. My vision clouds red, the bitter taste of absence thick on my tongue. Where is he? Who is he with? I push it down, bury it beneath the weight of my own pride. He can play his games. I’ll play mine.

I slip into a pink sundress that makes my waist look impossible and my legs look endless. My makeup is soft but lethal, the kind that fools people into thinking I’m delicate.

My father booked the gallery for me. At least he’s useful for something. The space is grand, marble floors gleaming under artificial lighting, but the woman who greets me looks less than impressed. She gives me a once-over, lips pursing. “You must be Lola Astor,” she says. “Your father’s assistant mentioned you’d be coming.”

The way she speaks tells me everything. She thinks I’m a spoiled, talentless rich girl playing artist. I see it in the way she stands, arms folded, eyes narrowed, scowling. It’s almost cute how she thinks she has the upper hand.

“Did she?” I hum.

“It’s just… surprising. We usually book real artists.”

Oh, she’s bold. I let the silence stretch, watching discomfort creep up her neck. Then I smile.

“That’s an interesting observation,” I say. “Because I was under the impression that real galleries don’t hire underqualified, underpaid women who wear polyester in thesummer.” I lean in, as if sharing a secret. “You should be careful who you look down on, darling. It’s always the ones you dismiss that end up owning the ground you stand on.”

She tries to keep her composure, but her eyes begin to glass over. I’ve had many talents since I was young, not just art, but also smelling insecurity like a shark senses blood. I could end it there, but I don’t. I cast an appraising look around the gallery. “This place will do, I suppose.” I turn back to her, offering one last smile. “Be a dear and make sure it’s perfect for me.”

By the time I walk away, she’s blinking back tears. I feel nothing. Except for that ever-present, gnawing hunger. Where the fuck is he?

I walk home, the sun warm on my skin, the fresh air doing me some good. But I hear footsteps behind me, just a bit too close, just a bit off rhythm. My fingers slip into my bag, curling around the metal canister of pepper spray. My grip tightens. I widen my stance. But just as I pivot, ready to strike, the man raises both hands. Palms out. He steps back.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says.

His voice carries an accent I can’t quite place. Russian? Eastern European? I scan him, every nerve in my body still on high alert. He’s tall, broad, dressed too well to be just some guy on the street. There’s something polished about him: sharp jaw, sharp eyes, sharp everything. But what rattles me isn’t just that he’s staring. It’s that, for half a second, I think it’s Mikhail.

No. Not him. But similar enough to make my stomach tighten in frustration. I’m so obsessed I’m seeing his face everywhere. "You always follow women down the street?" I spit.

"No, I’m sorry. I just saw you leaving the gallery." He chooses his words carefully. "It usually hosts impressive talent. I assume you’re one of them?"

My pride wants to purr at the compliment, but I smother the reaction. "You assumed correctly."

"You have an interesting presence. Your art must be the same." He pulls something from his pocket and extends it toward me. A business card, unmarked except for a name and number embossed in silver. "If you’re ever open to commissions," he says, "call me."

I take the card without looking at it, keeping my gaze locked on his. "And why would I do that?"

His lips tilt. Not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. "Because I don’t waste my time on artists who aren’t worth it. And as you know, the time of worthy artists isn’t cheap. I assure you, they get the pay they deserve."

Cocky. Self-assured. The kind of man who’s used to people jumping at his offers. I finally glance down at the card. Simple. Mysterious. When I look up again, he’s already turning to leave, blending into the crowd. I exhale, my pulse still a little too fast. Who the hell was that? And why does it feel like I just brushed up against something dangerous?

The name stares back at me in silver lettering.Roman Volkov.Volkov. The same last name as Mikhail. Coincidence? Maybe. But something about him, his presence, his calm authority, feels too familiar. Too similar. Is this Mikhail’s brother? I push the thoughts away and make my way home. The silence of my apartment presses in around me.

Fuck this.

I grab a blank canvas, setting it up before I can think twice. My fingers reach for the charcoal, the paints, moving instinctively. I paint the way it feels when he’s gone. The way my excitement bleeds out, leaving behind something hollow and gray. The way the air feels thinner, like I can’t breathe as deeply. The way my own body doesn’t feel like mine when he’s not near.

I smear red into black, dragging the brush across the canvas with an urgency I don’t fully understand. By the time I stop, my hands are trembling. The painting stares back at me, raw and unfiltered. Too much.

It’s not just that I miss him. It’s that I don’t feel alive unless he’s near.

The sound is faint, but I hear it: his door opens, then closes. It’s like my soul slams back into my body. He’s back. This time, I won’t let him say no. This time, I’ll take what’s mine.

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