Page 10 of Charmingly Obsessed
Normally, anger sends me retreating deep into my shell. But now, I’m too stunned, too disoriented. I just stare, reallyseeinghim. The pain in his eyes, the frustration, the sheer exhaustion warring with fierce intensity. And everything I see screams that he’s telling the truth. It wasn’t a joke.
“Don’t yell,” I whisper reflexively.Stupid.
“I’m trying to understand how you could possibly think… You thought… I wouldneverdo that to a woman! Humiliate her like that!”
How convenient for him to forget theotherhumiliation. The one that happened just an hourbeforethe kiss, where he publicly shredded my work and my confidence, leaving me reeling while others offered sympathetic murmurs. But dredging that up now feels pointless. He’s right. It’s been three years.
“Don’t try to understand, Frez,” I shake my head, a weary resignation settling over me. “Let it go. Please. I’m glad… we cleared this up. I have a long day tomorrow. I need to go.”
“We haven’t cleared up a damn thing!” he laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “You’re like… a locked room I desperately need the key to. Come back to the company.Come back.”
The weight of everything – the chase, the confrontation, the lies, the truth, Anya – becomes unbearable.
Silence hasn’t served me. Maybe the truth will. I brace myself for his inevitable ‘fix-it’ reaction.
“Mykola,” I sigh, meeting his eyes directly. “I have problems. Real ones. My sister… Anya… she died. Three days ago. I can’t work right now. I just… can’t. I’m sorry.”
His reaction is instantaneous, visceral. A strangled sound escapes him.
He grabs my other shoulder, pulling me abruptly against his hard chest. His arms wrap around me, tight, possessive. “What problems? I knew it. Iknewsomething was wrong.” His frantic gaze searches my face, frantic, desperate. “We’ll fix it. Whatever it is,Iwill fix it. You can count on me. Just tell me.”
His embrace is overwhelming, solid and warm. And despite knowing his savior complex is legendary, despite the chilling possibility that his world intersects with the very people who destroyed Anya… a tiny, treacherous seed of warmth takes root in my chest. God, how easy it would be to lean on him, to let him try. If only…
“No,” I say sharply, pushing against his chest, forcing myself out of his hold. The loss of contact is chilling. “Listen to me. No. I told you, I have a plan. It’s too late. Thank you for the offer. For… caring.”
He starts pacing again, a tight, agitated back-and-forth in the small space between us, his movements sharp, jerky. Avoiding my eyes. His mind is working furiously, calculating, strategizing. His refusal to give up is almost admirable.
“‘No’ isn’t an option,” he snaps, turning back to face me.
“It’s already done. I’m not lying. There’s very little that can be changed now.”
“Tell me your plan,” he demands, enunciating each word with clipped precision. It’s almost funny – the billionaire demanding intel from designer like a general.
But nothing about this is funny. Not when my stupid, traitorous heart still wants things it can’t have. Wants him to follow me upstairs. Wants him to reach for me again.
“Goodbye, Mykola,” I whisper, the word heavy with finality.
“I never asked for your forgiveness,” he says suddenly, his voice raw. “For what happened. With your hand. I’m asking now. Diana, there hasn’t been a second I haven’t regretted it. Wished I could take it back.”
“You already apologized,” I murmur, glancing down instinctively at my hidden hand. “Back then. When the ambulance came. I’ve forgotten it.” A lie. “Everyone has bad days.”
“Then I’m apologizing again, because I don’t remember.”
“You did,” I confirm quietly. “You were… upset.”
His handsome face contorts, muscles spasming under the skin, twisting into an expression of such raw agony that I instinctively take a step back.
The phantom ache in my palm flares, a cruel reminder.
“It’s okay,” I force out, the words feeling hollow. “All of this was a long time ago.”
His expressive eyes turn unreadable, flat, like shutters have slammed down. He looks at me like I’m… an equation he can’t solve. A source of unending complication. People hate being reminded oftheir own cruelty. My very existence is a testament to his momentary loss of control. But I never blamed him for the physical pain, not really. It was an accident born of chaos.
I try to offer a small, forgiving smile. He has a whole life waiting – jets, yachts, deals. Lots of friends and laughter. We’reoil and water. A sewing magazine and a financial genius. A joke. A misunderstanding.
I want to reach out, brush my lips against his cheek in a final, foolish gesture of goodbye. But courage fails me.
“It was… interesting meeting you, Kolya,” I begin, aiming for composed, but my voice wobbles betrayingly.
