Page 18 of Charmingly Obsessed

And it looks, it must look to her , 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 fucking cold ? 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.”

Albina never interrupts 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 humiliated her .

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 ones she selected. 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 looks scared . 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 critical expression 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 like this one, 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 would never …

What the hell are her paintings doing in an acquisition presentation?!

“I think the misunderstanding here is…” Albina continues, her voice trembling slightly, her eyes darting between me and Diana.

“Diana is joining us as a marketing designer , Mykola. For marketing materials. You thought… you thought she was the new collection manager? Right? We closed that vacancy last month. We… we added Diana’s paintings to the slideshow so the team could get used to her artistic style.

Since she said she didn’t have a commercial portfolio to show… ”

“I understand.” I stare down at the polished surface of the table, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. Especially not hers. “It’s clear now.”

“They… they aren’t for sale,” Diana stammers, her voice barely a whisper, and my heart, my stupid, arrogant heart, shreds into a million goddamn pieces. “I took them off the market. They are bad. I…”

“Diana,” I start, too loudly, desperate to explain, to apologize, to rewind time. “I thought… I had no idea… I…”

“I think we’re done here,” Albina cuts in firmly, her professionalism a lifeline in the suddenly hostile waters. She stands. “Diana,” she says to Diana, her voice gentle now, “Crosby and Aisana will show you to your workspace. Give you the tour. Let’s go.”

Diana rises from her chair. Her movements are graceful, fluid, despite the tension coiling in the room.

And as she walks towards the door, the waves of emotion crash over me again. Horror. Panic. Aching, desperate longing. Overwhelming, consuming desire. Exhilaration, sharp and painful. And fear. So much fucking fear.

I don’t even remember how I spring to my feet, how I manage to follow them out of the conference room.

But Albina’s irritated, furious face appearing directly in front of me, blocking my path in the hallway, stops me dead in my tracks.

She pulls me aside, her grip surprisingly strong on my arm.

“Mykola,” she hisses, her voice low and sharp, all pretense of deference gone.

“I am about to throw subordination, protocol, and my fucking employment contract out the goddamn window. What in the hell are you doing? I know dozens of clinical psychologists with twenty years of experience, and even they aren’t as perceptive, as insightful, as you usually are.

Usually . What the actual fuck got into you back there? ”

“I got confused. I lost track of the conversation. I thought she was the collection manager…”

“That’s not the point, Mykola! You… you didn’t just critique her work. You tore her apart . Personally.”

That sparks a completely irrational, juvenile wave of anger in me.

I would never have critiqued the paintings like that if I’d known the artist was in the room. Especially not if the artist was her . Never!

“It was a misunderstanding.” I sigh, running a hand through my hair, feeling sick to my stomach. “I assumed—”

“No, no, it’s not just that ,” she lowers her voice, but the fury is still there. “You were staring at her, Mykola. Staring and… and laughing . I’m sorry, but I’m in shock right now. She’s a beautiful girl, yes, but that was so far over the line it’s in another goddamn galaxy—”

No. She’s not just a beautiful girl. She’s… she’s fucking magic.

And how lucky am I, how unbelievably, terrifyingly lucky, that I realized it instantly? And how catastrophically unlucky that I then proceeded to destroy any chance I might have had with her in the space of ten minutes?

“I’ll control it,” I manage, my voice hoarse. “It was… too much. I’ll… I’ll do something. Fix it.”

“Mykola,” Albina exhales, some of the anger draining away, replaced by a weary concern.

“You can see she’s insecure. Hesitant. We can’t create that kind of toxic atmosphere in this office.

You completely crushed her. The pointed questions, the insinuations, the…

the analysis of her art. She got so nervous she just…

shut down. She’s humiliated, Mykola. Cornered. Scared. And—”

“Enough,” I warn, my voice like ice now. Because I can’t listen to another second of it. The litany of what I’ve done to her. The damage I’ve inflicted.

Albina watches me closely, her expression unreadable. “Just… make sure this doesn’t end in a lawsuit, Mykola. For sexual harassment. Or creating a hostile work environment. Or just… being a colossal asshole.”

I walk back to my office. The hallways, usually straight and familiar, seem to twist and warp around me.

When I reach my door, the heavy oak barrier that usually feels like a sanctuary, I stop. And turn around.

I’m fixing this.

Right now.