Page 36 of Charmingly Obsessed
Ridiculous word.Like.Pale as a goddamn winter sky. Dull as…
God, my brain simply doesn’t work anymore.
Apparently, I laugh out loud. A harsh, strangled sound.
Because even Crosby, my usually imperturbable rock, shoots me a look of utter confusion.
“Maratchi isn’t quite the level we’re aiming for here, of course,” I try to recover, forcing my tone softer, more reasonable. “Where else have you worked? Directly in fine art acquisition and management? I confess, I haven’t had a chance to review your complete file yet.”
Diana just stares at me. Blankly. That same unnerving, detached gaze.
I feel – irrationally, absolutely – that she’s on the verge of revealing her true self, of dropping the mask. And the anticipation, the sheer, terrifyingneedto know, makes my head spin.
My mouth is so dry my throat starts to itch.
I always try. Ialwaystry to avoid… objectifying women. To keep my thoughts respectful. Professional. It’s unnecessary, that kind of mental locker-room bullshit. Only appropriate, only permissible, when the woman is yours. Truly yours. But… Diana moves her arm slightly, a subtle shift of her shoulders, and the white blouse pulls taut across her chest for a fleeting instant.And now the images, the thoughts, they won’t stop. The soft, delicate curve of her breasts pressing against her ribs. They seem to sharpen at the top, and I think –God, I think– her breasts must be like perfect teardrops, her nipples taut, exquisitely sensitive, and I would… I would roll them in my palm. For hours. Worship them with my mouth.
And her face… those lips, that skin… it makes me flush, hot and heavy, just imagining what I’d dotoit. No, what I’d doonit…
I try to wrestle control of the runaway train of lust careening through my thoughts.
Apparently, I laugh again. Another harsh, inappropriate bark of sound.
And it looks, it must look toher, as though I’m laughing at her silence. At her.
“Nowhere,” she answers finally, her voice slow, deliberate, each syllable landing like a tiny stone in the suffocating silence.
I try – really, really try – to understand what the hell is happening. What does she mean,nowhere? And why is she so… so fuckingcold? So distant? I’m over here, on this side of the polished mahogany table, literally burning alive. And she’s… a glacier.
“Very interesting,” I force out, managing another travesty of a smile. But on the exhale, it sounds more like a snort. Derisive. Dismissive. “So, you haven’t worked anywhere of note, and yet—”
“Mykola, this isn’t an interview,” Albina interrupts, her voice sharp now, laced with genuine alarm. “Diana is already working with us. She started this morning.”
Albinaneverinterrupts anyone. Especially not me. And I don’t interrupt people either. But today’s meeting… this is apparently when every ‘never’ I’ve ever known decides to simultaneously implode.
And Diana Bilova, the new employee, my dream, my undoing, just looks around the room with that same empty, indifferent gaze.
I’ve royally, catastrophically, epically screwed this up. Made a complete and utter fool of myself. Humiliated myself. And, much, much worse… I’ve humiliatedher.
I have to fix this. Now. I have to show her… show them… that I know something. That I’m not a complete, drooling idiot. That I have some value beyond my bank balance and my reputation for charming repartee.
I turn, too quickly, towards the carousel of paintings still glowing on the screen. The onessheselected. The ones she thinks are worthy of my collection.
“I’ll give a quick assessment. My initial thoughts on these proposed acquisitions.”
And for some reason… when I glance back at her, she looks… scared. A flicker of something vulnerable, something hunted, in those previously unreadable eyes.
My pulse hammers, a frantic reverse countdown. It must be running out soon. This moment. This chance. And I…
Diana looksscared. Which means she’s not as arrogant, not as cold, as she seems. God, maybe she’s… shy. She looks so incredibly fragile right now. Breakable.
“This one,” I begin, my voice hoarse, pointing to the bizarre pink hill painting, trying to regain my professional composure, trying to salvage this disaster. I flip through the images on the screen with the remote. “Pure formalism in technique, obviously. But the contrast with that almost childlike uncertainty in the subject matter… it’s striking. A beautiful transition, perhaps, but there’s no real boldness. No conviction.” I move to the next. “This attempt at deconstruction… it’s another timid sketch of postmodernism. Not fully realized. Probably due to a lack of confidence on the artist’s part.” I frown, a criticalexpression I often use in acquisition meetings. “It all looks like it was done by the same hand,” I observe. “Honestly, it’s strange that these are all for sale. They’re unfinished. Raw. Like they were painted by someone… seriously emotionally stunted. Arrested in their development.” I click to another. “Here, infantilism is played up, fairly self-critical, which is interesting, but the overall impact is weak. Derivative.” I pause on one, a darker, more abstract piece. “I likethisone, though,” I concede. “We’re definitely buying this one. There’s something… raw about its underdevelopment. Is it about body dysmorphia? An emotional void that’s almost palpable. The motor skills are sluggish, incomplete. Notice,” I add, trying to sound insightful, “I’m deliberately not looking at the artists’ names. So we leave room for unbiased artistic choice, and—”
“Mykola.” Albina’s voice cuts through my pontificating, sharp with anxiety, her face pale. “These… these are Diana’s paintings. She’s the artist. And I think there’s been a profound misund—”
“That’s right,” Diana says. Her voice is quiet. Devastatingly quiet. But in the ringing silence of the conference room, it sounds like a fucking thunderclap. “I suppose ‘Body Dysmorphia’… is rather underdeveloped, isn’t it?”
The blood drains from my face so fast I feel lightheaded. I’m not sure I can still breathe. I… I wouldnever…
