Page 13 of Charmingly Obsessed
“So, here’s the thing,” he begins, his tone crisp, methodical, terrifyingly certain. He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, pinning me with that sharp gaze. “You’ll handle the collections. The entire art direction vertical. Acquisition strategy, curation, everything. Once we’ve streamlined the existing assets and mapped out the acquisition targets, you’ll build your own team. We can set you up in a separate office if you prefer – dedicated space, studio included, obviously. You’ll liaise with Sotheby’s and Christie’s, directly under my oversight – they’ll try to obstruct, there are internal politics, nuances we need to navigate.” He pauses, his eyes gleaming. “By the way, Christie’s will be very interested inyourpaintings. So will several galleries downtown. We can aim for a New York debut next year – Tribeca is accessible, but we need to build your name first to maximize impact. We’ll structure it so management duties don’t impede your studio time. You’ll need to travel, of course. Attend the major art fairs with me for acquisitions.” He taps his knuckles lightly on the table, a rhythmic counterpoint to my hammering heart. His phone buzzes, ignored. “And now,” he finishes, his gaze sharpening further, “we need to discuss your problems. In detail.”
He waits, watching me, calculating my reaction like inputting data into a complex algorithm.
People like me, whose emotions hide behind layers of internal captchas –“Confirm you are human, please click all the squares containing raw terror”– must be exhausting for him. Frez thrives on emotion, reads it, wields it. It’s his native language.
That’s why he kissed me yesterday. Not just the command, but the intensity, theclaiming. He was testing me, provoking a reaction, trying to crack the code. I still can’t fully decipher it, lacking his social fluency.
A private collections manager with her own office studio, reporting directly to Mykola Frez. Artnet would have a field day. It’s insane. It’s… tempting.
“I want to acquire Twombly,” he continues, listing artists like strategic targets. “Liu Ye. Fan Zhi. Right now. And track down all available Mirós from private hands.”
“Liu Ye?” The name escapes me in a breath of genuine excitement, momentarily overriding the panic. “That’s… amazing. I love his work. And Miró – yes, absolutely. Her use of color…” My voice trails off as I catch myself.
One of his fingers slips slightly off the tabletop. He straightens marginally in his chair, a subtle shift.
I want to show him my plan, the notes scribbled frantically last night. I reach across the table to move an empty plate out of the way—
Wait.The plate is empty. Utterly clean.
My gaze snaps up to his face. There were four large pastries on that plate three minutes ago.
“Where are the pastries?” The question comes out sharper than intended.
“Ate them,” he sighs, and for the first time since I’ve known him, Mykola Frez actually looks… sheepish. He avoids my gaze, focusing intently on stirring his already black coffee.
All four?In three minutes? Forget financial genius; I’ve been working alongside the undisputed world champion of competitive pastry eating.
Billionaires. Even when it comes to baked goods intended for the homeless, their ruthless efficiency is unmatched.
“Oh. Right. Good. Enjoy. I can get more… I was just surprised. Thought maybe they’d… fallen.”
“They were delicious,” he says, his voice dropping deeper, his gaze finally lifting to meet mine, direct and unwavering.
And for a crazy, heart-stopping second, the intensity in his eyes feels possessive, like he could only possibly desire the person who made them.Me.
My hands clench in my lap.Get a grip, Diana.This is not about pastries or desire. This is about survival.
Frustration washes over me – frustration at him, at the situation, at my own stupid, susceptible heart.
“I want to make a deal with you,” I manage, pulling out the folded piece of paper containing my desperate, scribbled plan.
“A deal,” Frez repeats, the words clipped, precise. His jaw clenches almost imperceptibly. He gives a sharp nod. “Fine. Compensation. Name… your price. Any amount.”
“I can’t work in the main office. I can set up at home, come in as needed… By the way, where are the primary storage units located—?”
It hits me then. What he just said.Compensation. Any amount.Compensation… for what? Not salary. The way he said it…
“I don’t understand,” I say slowly, lowering my paper. “What do you mean by compensation?”
He snatches the paper from my hand before I can react, his eyes scanning it rapidly, flicking down to the last line.
Heat rushes to my cheeks – my plan looks pathetic, amateurish. I fight the urge to grab it back.
“Nothing,” he says abruptly, too quickly. “I mean, just salary expectations. That’s all. Standard negotiation.”
He slides a small, thick card across the table towards me. Like a business card, but blank except for a number scrawled across it in bold, black ink. A number so large it takes up the entire surface. “I’ve prepared an offer. And yes, working from home is fine initially. But I need to understandwhy.”
The sunlit kitchen suddenly feels arctic. Ice forms in my veins.
