Page 27 of Beautifully Deranged

“It was never an option,” I growl. “Drop it.”

I hear the faint flick of a lighter on the other end. “You sure she’s nothing?” His voice is casual, but I know him too well.

“She’s a fuck. Convenient, nothing more.”

She’s everything. And I’d burn for her before I ever said that out loud.

“Good. We both know what happens when men like us start thinking they can have something real.”

“Yeah. We do.”

We break it. Because that’s all we know how to do.

The line clicks dead. I stand there for a moment, staring at the phone in my hand. She means everything. And I just told my brother she meant nothing. I’m falling in love with her. The thought crashes into me like a freight train. Raw. Brutal. Unrelenting. I brace my hands against the cold wall, my breath sharp and uneven. The air in this secluded room feels stale, suffocating. The words still cling to my skin like filth.

She’s a fuck. Convenient. Nothing more.

I grab a nearby flower pot, the nausea hitting too fast to stop. I heave into it, bile burning on the way out. Steadying myself, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, fighting the dizziness. If I don’t get a grip, she’ll be my downfall. She’ll become a liability to the Bratva. A name on their list. A way tobreak me. I wish I could run. God, I wish I could take her and vanish into a world where none of this exists. But there’s no escaping this life. The only exit is death.

I tilt my head back and slam it against the wall. The pain doesn’t solve anything. But it reminds me I’m still here. That I still have control.

I shove my phone into my pocket and push off the wall, heading back into the main hall of the gallery. My eyes scan the crowd.

Where is she?

A scowl carves itself across my face. She was just here. When I spot her, my entire body ignites. She’s standing too close to some guy, polished, clean-cut, the kind who probably drinks whiskey neat and calls his mother every Sunday. Safe. So goddamn safe. He’s looking at her like she’s the dream he’s been chasing his whole life. And she’s laughing at something he said.

My hands clench into fists. I move before I can stop myself. For the first time since I’ve known her, when she looks at me, she’s cold. What the hell? When have our names existed in the same breath without heat, without tension, without fire?

I stand beside her, and the guy barely glances at me.

“You’re remarkable, really,” he says. “I’ve never seen anything quite like your work.”

My teeth grind together. He doesn’t get to talk about her like that. He doesn’t get to look at her like that.

“I’d be honored to buy all your paintings.”

I snake an arm around his neck, casual enough to look friendly. But my grip is painfully tight. That’s when he finally notices me, fear clouding his eyes. “They are not for sale,” I murmur.

“I think I’ll reconsider,” he stammers.

Good boy.

I release him, and he rubs his neck, clearly unsure whether what happened was real. He throws Lola a weak smile. “Another time, then.”

Her stare cuts through me as that prick walks away. “You’re buying my work now?” she scoffs.

“I’ll be the only one to buy them,” I say flatly.

She lets out a low laugh. “Of course you will.”

I glare at her, my pulse hammering in my throat. “Who the fuck was that?”

She studies me like she’s assessing damage. Then she lifts her chin and says, “He was like you… a convenient fuck.”

The floor shifts under me. My own words echo back, poisoned and sharp. She doesn’t flinch as she lands another blow. “And he certainly deserves my paintings more than you. He actually appreciates my talent. I’m not just ‘fine’ at anything, Mikhail Volkov.”

The words tear through me like bullets.

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