Page 14 of Charmingly Obsessed
The number is impossibly large for a collections manager’s salary. This isn’t a job offer.
Compensation,he said.For the burn? For the brutal kiss three years ago? For yesterday? Is this his twisted way of trying to buy my silence, my compliance, my forgiveness?
I push back my chair, standing so quickly it scrapes loudly against the floor.
The thugs. They’re coming.He needs to leave.Now.This isn’t a game. He can’t be here. The thought of Frez – intense, unpredictable, powerful Frez – colliding with Kozar’s brutal enforcers right here sends a fresh wave of terror through me.
I grab the card, intending to march to the trash can.
But as my fingers close around the thick paper, something inside me snaps. Like a taut wire breaking. A blade slicing through canvas.
With a strangled cry, I rip the offending card in half. Then again. And again, tearing the obscene number into tiny, meaningless pieces.
6
Chapter 6 Diana
“Diana.” He’s on his feet instantly, moving so fast he seems to blur at the edges. Suddenly, the small kitchen feels suffocatingly crowded, dominated by his presence. “W-what… We can discuss it. Change any condition. Right now.”
“You need to go,” I say, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts. I dump the shredded card into the bin. “We can discuss… the offer… later.”
“There’s nothing to discuss ‘later’!” He sounds almost frantic now. “I can double it. Triple it! Let me remind you, you already agreed to the job yesterday.”
Ah, yes. The master negotiator. I’m sure he doesn’t pull this crap with sovereign wealth funds or hostile takeovers. Offering astronomical sums like Monopoly money – is this his idea of fixing things? Or another twisted joke?
“I understand. Very clever,” I say, my voice flat, mechanical. “I appreciate the humor. But seriously, you need to leave. Now.”
His hand shoots out, fingers clamping around my elbow. Not painful, but firm, inescapable.
He gives me a small, impatient shake, forcing me to tilt my head up, to meet his bewildered, frustrated gaze. “Let’s speak plainly, Diana. Completely plainly. I don’t understand you. At all. Do you get that?”
A dark, ugly flicker of satisfaction sparks within me.Good.If he doesn’t understand, he can’t mock me for the feelings I try so desperately to hide.
Though after yesterday’s kiss… the fear that he knows, that he saw right through me, is a cold knot in my stomach.
“Four hundred thousand dollars?” I challenge, finding my voice. “For what? I don’t have the qualifications for that salary level. Or the connections. I’m an artist who happens to be a decent manager. Collection managers don’t make that kind of money, not even at the top museums. You know that.”
“Actually that figure represents roughly one percent of the estimated current collection value. Standard asset management fee structure. But fine. Forget the number for a second. Explain to me – right now – what was so ‘clever’ about the offer?”
I remain silent, trapped by the raw emotion swimming in his eyes – confusion, frustration, and something else… something that looks disturbingly like hurt.
He gives my arm another small shake, his thumb brushing against the soft fabric of my sleeve near the crook of my elbow. The fleeting contact feels dangerously close to a caress. My skin prickles.
“If you work from home, you’re essentially working directly for me. Not for the office. You understand the distinction?”
“Alright,” I whisper, unable to meet his gaze, focusing instead on the pulse beating frantically at the base of his throat.I catch the slight hitch in his breath – an accident, surely. “Let me go, please. If I’m going to work for you… then don’t grab me.”
He releases me so abruptly I stumble backward. His hand darts out instinctively to steady me, catching my wrist.
His thumb brushes over my palm—over the burn scar—before I snatch my hand back as if burned again.
A strange, eerie smile twists his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, I’ll show you ‘clever,’” he mutters, his voice tight.
He turns, strides past me towards the trash bin. And starts rummaging through the torn scraps of paper.
My breath catches. He’s actually… He’s piecing the card back together. Methodically. Obsessively. Laying the ragged fragments out on the countertop, fitting them like a morbid jigsaw puzzle until the obscene number is reconstructed.
He presses his palm flat over the reassembled card, pinning it down. Then he turns back to me, his expression fierce, demanding.
