Page 26 of Beautifully Deranged

"You missed me," I say.

He holds my gaze, then mutters, "Eat your food, Lola."

And God, do I light up.

Because that’s not a denial.

Progress.

?Chapter Thirteen?

Mikhail

It’s the day of the exhibition. She picked out what I’m wearing. And I let her. Like an idiot. Now, standing in the middle of this gallery, I know I made a mistake. Because I can’t look away from her. The white dress fits her like a second skin, floor-length, elegant, and the square neckline is practically sinful. Her tits peek out just enough to make every man in this room steal glances. Her auburn hair is pin-straight, reaching her ass. I helped her straighten it, hours of her between my legs, her scent in my lungs. I’m weak for her. And I hate myself for it.

Her paintings are nothing short of exquisite. Every brushstroke, every shadow, and color, she poured herself into them, and it shows. The guests can’t get enough, whispering about her talent, praising her like she hung the goddamn moon. The men are practically on their knees. They laugh too hard at her jokes. Their hands twitch, like they’re seconds away from pressing a hand to the small of her back, from stealing even a sliver of what’s mine.

But I won’t cause a scene. Instead, I grab a glass from a passing waiter and gulp it down. I hate how much I want to rip her away from all of this and remind her that no matter how many people look at her like she’s their muse, their obsession, their dream…she’s mine. She even smiles at her father. That prick. To anyone else, it looks natural. Like she’s a daughter who actually means something to him. Like he’s a father who gives a shit. But I know better.

I shouldn’t have come or let her pull me into this. Because this thing between us can’t go anywhere. Why am I playing house with her when I know damn well I can’t have her? Whydo I think of her as mine when she can never be? This thing between us can’t progress. Not without putting her in danger. Not without dragging her into a world where men like me don’t get happy endings.

There is also something peculiar I notice...

I know when she’s truly happy, and this isn’t it. She’s performing. Smiling in all the right places, laughing at all the right moments. To everyone else, she’s the picture of charm, the perfect host, effortlessly weaving through the crowd and entertaining guests.

However, her spine is too straight. Her left eye twitches from time to time. She’s looking at faces too carefully, as if she already knows every single one, as if she’s searching for someone new.

The tension in her shoulders only melts when she looks at me.

Or when she’s with the friend she introduced me to, a shy thing. I watch as she touches the girl’s arm, says something that pulls a smile out of her, and eases some of the stiffness in her posture. My phone vibrates. Roman.

I step into a darkened side room, shut the door behind me, and press the phone to my ear.

“You don’t know someone who can step into the forgery, huh?” he huffs, straight to the point.

“We already talked about this,” I snap.

“And I’m asking again.”

My throat tightens. “I don’t have anyone.”

Roman clicks his tongue, unimpressed. “Bullshit.”

I grip the bridge of my nose. “Stay the fuck out of my business.”

“Your business was never just yours. You forget that?”

I can’t let this conversation go where he wants it to. If I give him even a hint about Lola, if he suspects what she means to me, he’ll never let it go. I force a scoff. “You think I’d trustsome pampered little gallery girl with something like this? She wouldn’t last a day. She’s not even that good.”

She’s not “good”. She’s exceptional.

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Then your sources are shit. She’s fine,” I say, the words like poison in my mouth. “Not good enough to be useful. And I don’t trust her not to snitch the second things get real. She’s soft. She doesn’t have it in her.”

It burns. Every syllable, every lie.

“That’s a shame. Could’ve been a neat solution.”

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