Page 35 of Charmingly Obsessed
And a new countdown begins. The countdown of my life. Or maybe the end of it. I’m not sure. I’m not sure ofanythinganymore.
But I know the exact time. The meeting is scheduled for noon. And as Albina, bustling and efficient, and Crosby, my stoic second-in-command, enter the room, I glance at the clock on the wall. 11:59 AM. The moment the world stopped turning on its axis and started revolving aroundher.
Everyone takes their seats. Albina offers the new employee a warm, welcoming smile. Diana Bilova doesn’t return it. Not even a polite flicker. Her expression is… unwavering. Composed. Either breathtakingly arrogant or achingly restrained. I can’t tell.
She doesn’t look at me again, but I can’t tear my gaze away. I’m frozen, transfixed, staring at her profile as Albina begins the introductions. The words are a meaningless drone in the background. White noise.
Her eyes. They’re light, yes, but whatshade? From here, they look like a sky, a bruised blue-gray. Slightly swollen, maybe from lack of sleep, giving her gaze a languid, almost dreamy quality. A waterfall of golden-brown hair, tucked behind one delicate ear. The crisp cut of her white blouse clings… shyly… to a frame that’s slender but hints at soft curves beneath. No jewelry. Not a scrap. And…
Albina clears her throat pointedly, her gaze flicking towards me. Right. The script.
By now, according to standard operating procedure, I should be on my twentieth witty remark, charming the room, putting everyone at ease.
But this isn’t standard. This isn’t anything I’ve ever experienced. Because Diana Bilova, this quiet, unreadable woman, is, unmistakably and irrevocably…
…my dream.
I just didn’t fucking know it. Didn’t know a dream, an abstract longing, could take human form. Could walk into my conference room and hijack my entire goddamn operating system.
“…I worked for Maratchi Art online, as an independent contractor,” her voice finally registers, soft, low, with a faint, unplaceable accent that makes my skin prickle. “There was aneed for custom digital templates, though it’s not quite the kind of direct experience that would be most useful to you here…”
“Wait,” I interrupt, my own voice sounding rusty, unfamiliar. I’m trying… God, I’mtryingto grasp her words, to string them into a coherent narrative. But the facts, her qualifications, her experience… they’re just tumbling around in my head like clothes in a goddamn washing machine stuck on the spin cycle. I keep trying, and trying, while she waits. Patiently. Watching me with those unreadable eyes. And she is… she is breathtakingly, terrifyingly beautiful. Like…
Like a force of nature – ruthless, magnificent, utterly indifferent to the chaos she unleashes…
Like a prima ballerina caught mid-fouetté, a perilous, exquisite leap twisting into a doomed, intoxicating vortex…
Like some ancient solar priestess, born of the sun’s own inferno, but her true light is so vast that it reaches earthly mortals only in its coldest, most distant rays.
Fucking hell,she is a babe.
“…Mykola?” Albina prompts again, her voice gentle but firm, a delicate, nervous chuckle escaping her. She tucks her chin into her shoulder, a subtle gesture of… concern? “It’s an important day, I know – Liverpool is playing this afternoon,” she clicks her tongue, offering Diana a conspiratorial smile. “You… you were going to ask something, Mykola?” she raises her voice slightly, trying to cut through my apparent stupor.
“Yes,” I latch onto the shortest word available, forcing it out, making it sound firm, decisive. God, I hope. “I was just saying. You… You…”You are going to be the death of me.
Diana’s gaze slides through me, as if I’m made of glass. Then she casually, dismissively, tosses her hair over one shoulder and scans the room, her attention drifting.
And I lose it. The moment. The crucial, irreplaceable, first-impression moment. Control, my lifelong companion, slips through my fingers like dry, useless sand.
“You said,” I manage, trying to recover, trying to sound like the competent, powerful CEO I’m supposed to be, “your experience at Maratchi… isn’t exactly relevant. Why useless? Explain.” I even attempt a smile. I think it might have come out as a grimace.
Diana doesn’t answer immediately. There’s no sign of deliberation, no thoughtful pause. She just seems… absent. Utterly detached. As if this meeting, this job,me… none of it registers on her radar. She’s indifferent. Not even condescending. Just… blank.
I… I’m not sure I remember how to breathe, let alone move.
“The position advertised,” she says finally, her voice still quiet, still maddeningly calm, “is highly specialized. My work at Maratchi didn’t involve developing acommercialfine art portfolio.”
“Wait,” I interrupt again, desperate to regain some footing, to assert some control over this… this inexplicable unraveling. “Maratchi is, of course, mass-market. Not a serious gallery, no one in therealart world takes it seriously. But it’s still direct experience with artists, with the market…” I’m babbling. Jesus Christ.
“I-I saidcommercial,” she replies, a faint hint of impatience, or maybe just weariness, finally entering her tone. “It’s not commercial fine art experience. That’s why I mentioned it at the outset.” Abrupt. Dismissive.
“But we don’tneedcommercial,” I counter, grasping at straws. “You’ll be working directly under me. My guidance. My… oversight.”
“Alright,” Diana replies, and it’s painfully, excruciatingly obvious she’s only agreeing because I’m her new boss. Because shehasto.
But I don’t want to be her boss. Iwon’tbe. I can’t be.
The back of my Italian shirt is damp with sweat. The echo of her quiet, indifferent voice still lingers in my ears, on my skin. What fucking boss? She… She’s burned onto my retinas like a solar flare. I won’t be able to work with her.Work?Ha. She… Ilikeher.
