Page 4 of Charmingly Obsessed
“Are you… okay?” The words slip out, betraying that flicker of unwanted empathy again.
He actually paces then, running a hand through his hair, looking caged himself. “Am I okay?” he mutters, tilting his head back as if searching the ceiling for answers. “Define okay… Never mind me. Just tell me what happened, Diana. The truth.”
Right. As if the great Mykola Frez would confide in me. I’m nothing. A fleeting inconvenience.
“I didn’t want to elaborate for Albina,” I say, trying to regain composure, forcing an even tone. “But I really do plan to change fields. I’ll be working online.”
“What field?” he demands sharply, leaning back against the desk again, arms crossed, radiating impatience.
“Something closer to the arts,” I manage, swallowing nervously. “Consulting, perhaps. Collection management. Depends on the client.”
His eyes narrow, then suddenly light up with an intensity. “Perfect.” The word lands like a hammer blow. “You can switch careers right here. I was just planning to focus more on my private collections. Sotheby’s is too corporate, too sterile. I need hands-on management. You can oversee everything. Build the division. Report directly to me.”
I stare at him, utterly stunned. Is he serious? He talks about creating a new department like ordering coffee. His blue eyes are wide, direct, burning with a conviction that feels less like business strategy and more like… obsession.
“You’re overestimating me,” I whisper, perching on the edge of my chair again, feeling small. “As a specialist. And as an employee.”
“Let me be the judge of that. My evaluation is the only one that counts.”
He’s immovable. This isn’t the calculated persistence of a negotiator. This is something else entirely. Something personal, bordering on desperate. A side of Frez I never imagined.
Fine. If lying gets me out of this locked room, I’ll lie.
“Okay.” I grab my bag from the desk, forcing myself to stand tall, projecting a decisiveness I don’t feel. “Deal. I’ll handle your collections.”
I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the locked door. He’s left me no choice. Tomorrow, I sign the papers, hand over the keys to those sharks, move into Serafima Pylypivna’s spare room, and disappear. This ‘deal’ means nothing. Anya’s debts remain, but freelance work is the plan. My escape is still on.
“So, you’ll come in tomorrow?” he asks, his voice suddenly quiet, searching.
I nod curtly. Then nod again, just to be sure. My gaze sweeps the office, a silent goodbye.
Frez stands motionless near the desk, effectively blocking my path to the door. The air crackles with unspoken tension.
I can count the seconds by the rise and fall of his chest – probably three seconds per breath. I don’t dare look higher than his collarbone. His breathing seems to slow, deepen, becoming heavy, thick.
Time stretches and snaps. Thinking he must be moving aside, I take a quick step forward—only to find him still directly in my path.
I halt, flustered, and turn towards the coat rack instead, reaching for my trench coat.Hide the hand. Don’t let him look. Just get the coat, get out, pretend this madness never happened.
My intention to leave is crystal clear. Yet, he remains planted there, an unmovable object.
“Something else?” I ask, my voice tight, strained.
“I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
The statement is flat, almost robotic, yet strangely intimate.
The sheer oddness of it breaks through my defenses. I finally look up, meeting his eyes fully.
The depths of those dark blue eyes are turbulent. Flashes of something wild, almost unhinged, flicker beneath the surface. The charming mischief I remembered seeing from afar seems twisted now, warped by desperation and chaos.
He leans in, his presence so overwhelming it’s hard to breathe. And God help me, some stupid part of me—the girl who was once impressed by his legend—is still drawn to him. The feeling is as inevitable as breathing.
My breath catches. It feels like… like he might…No.Panic flares. I turn my head sharply aside, a purely defensive reflex.
His lips brush my temple. Accidental? Intentional? I don’t know. The contact is fleeting, barely there, but it sends a jolt through me, heat flaring on my skin.
I squeeze my eyes shut, reeling from the confusing mix of fear, resentment, and a spark of something I refuse to name.
