Page 49 of Charmingly Obsessed

I want to cover myself. With a towel, a sheet, my own hands – anything.

But the terror gripping me is so absolute, so tangible, it’s like my limbs are no longer my own.

Useless appendages. I’m a statue carved from shock.

It’s as if my soul has literally fled my body, leaving it a hollow, unresponsive shell.

And if I’m not in here anymore… then who the hell is supposed to be in control?

My fingers are still clenched around the simple black hair clip, my arm frozen mid-air.

His right hand, which had been hanging loosely at his side, twitches, as if it’s about to rise, to reach for me.

Then, he snaps out of it. He turns away sharply, a jerky, almost violent movement. But then… then he looks again. A second, longer, more deliberate look. A slow, lingering appraisal that feels like a physical touch, like a brand being seared into my skin.

The hot, damp steam from the shower, which had felt so comforting just moments before, now licks at my bare back like tongues of fire. Exposing me. Consuming me.

“I…” he starts, his voice a raw, strangled rasp. “I’m sorry. I… I’m leaving. I’ll go.”

It takes him more than one fumbling attempt to close the heavy bathroom door behind him.

The soft, almost inaudible click of the lock finally engaging slams into my ears like a high-voltage surge, jolting me back to life.

I step carefully, my legs trembling, onto the cool, smooth marble tile of the shower floor. The water is way too hot, scalding.

I must have mixed up the settings on the ridiculously complicated, state-of-the-art touchscreen shower panel. I adjust it manually, dialing the temperature down to a more humane level of warmth, increasing the pressure to a punishing, needle-like spray.

This hotel recently underwent a grand, multi-million-dollar renovation. And the lighting, I realize with a fresh wave of horror, is not soft or forgiving. It’s strategically, almost cruelly, designed to highlight even the subtlest of shadows, the most infinitesimal of flaws.

It wasn’t the worst possible light he could have seen me in. In fact, it was probably one of the best. The most… revealing.

I just… I just meant to do everything myself today. Undress for him. Today. For sure. Definitely. Last night… last night didn’t work out because Mykola was acting strange, possessive, almost… unhinged.

But tonight… tonight, I was absolutely, positively going to do it.

With a childish, impotent surge of frustration, I throw the ridiculously fluffy, lavender-scented loofah against the opposite marble wall.

I need a minute. I need to catch my breath. The purple, ribbon-tailed loofah drifts slowly, mockingly, towards my feet in the swirling water.

I rub my face with my hands, hard, as if trying to physically sober myself up from the intoxicating, terrifying cocktail of shock and shame and… something else. Something that feels dangerously like excitement.

Then, with a resigned sigh, I pick up the loofah and keep washing.

Afterward, I dry myself off. Thoroughly.

Meticulously. I should probably style my hair.

There’s a professional-grade, ridiculously powerful Dyson blow dryer tucked away in one of the vanity drawers.

I’m on autopilot, a spectator to my own reflection.

In the enormous, fog-free mirror, my hands apply makeup with the robotic precision of a pre-programmed battle routine.

The sharp, clean eyeliner wings I manage to draw, with hands that are surprisingly steady, probably deserve some kind of award. I apply my lipstick – a bold, defiant, Chanel red – twice . Because the first attempt wasn’t quite perfect. Not quite… armor-like enough.

When I finally, finally return to the bedroom, wrapped in a plush, monogrammed hotel robe that smells faintly of him, I am completely dry. My back is ramrod straight. My expression is, I hope, a mask of cool, unbothered composure.

Mykola is gone.

Good.

Very, very good.

He probably went through just as much of a shock as I did. Maybe more.

Technically, there’s a second, equally opulent guest bathroom in this suite. And… I don’t even know how it happened, how I could have been so careless, so… distracted, that I didn’t even close the main bathroom door properly. The whole mortifying situation is entirely, completely on me.

And the most absurd part is that the “situation” even happened in the first place.

I freeze when my eyes land on a sweater label. A tag. Protruding from… an open suitcase.

A suitcase that is now sitting, open and accusing, on the plush, tufted luggage rack at the foot of the bed. Half-filled with my clothes.

A few warm, sensible sweaters remain in the suitcase, but my hands, when I try to fold them neatly, won’t cooperate. They’re trembling again.

God, what am I doing? Where… where am I going? When did I start packing my clothes?!

I didn’t even notice when I started packing.

Holy shit. I must have opened the enormous, walk-in closet, then rolled my battered, familiar suitcase out of its hiding place, without even realizing it.

I don’t remember my own actions. It’s like watching a movie of someone else’s life. Someone else’s panic.

I start pulling things out of the suitcase, but I’ve already packed too much.

Frustrated, angry at myself, at him, at the whole goddamn situation, I crumple everything together – sweaters, blouses, my one good pair of jeans – and shove it all back into the closet in a messy, chaotic heap.

I’ll organize it all properly later. Maybe.

All that’s left in the suitcase now is some random, colorful junk. A spare scarf. A paperback novel. My…

“Diana… what the actual hell are you doing?!”

My own squeak of surprise would have been far less humiliating if I hadn’t nearly jumped out of my goddamn skin. He moves like a fucking ghost.

A very large, very angry, very well-dressed ghost. How did he manage to sneak up on me like that? Again?

I force my throat to work, to swallow past the enormous, painful lump that’s suddenly formed there.

Especially when he takes another, deliberate, menacing step closer.

Mykola is staring at me, at the half-empty suitcase, at the messy pile of clothes in the closet, with an expression of utter, bewildered fury.

His hands are clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides.

I… I’ll fix this. I’ll explain. Right now.

But, God, how stupid, how utterly, damningly guilty, this looks.

What am I supposed to do with the goddamn suitcase now?

That acceptance letter from Hogwarts definitely missed its thirty-year delivery deadline. Because I desperately, desperately need a magic wand right now.

“What the hell are you doing, Diana?” he repeats, his voice low now, dangerously quiet. “What are you packing?”

He’s gripping the handle of my battered suitcase so tightly I’m afraid he’ll snap the cheap plastic right off. But I don’t dare stop him.

He rolls it back, away from the closet, and leaves it sitting, a stark, ugly monument to my panic, in the very middle of the room.

He runs a hand through his artfully tousled, still-damp hair. Once. Twice. Three times. A gesture of pure frustration.

Mykola… just look at me… please…

“I-I… I got mixed up,” I babble, the words tumbling out, weak and unconvincing even to my own ears. “Confused. I put everything back. See? I was just… rearranging things. In the closet. This isn’t what it looks like.”

In a split second, he shoves the suitcase hard against the far wall with his foot and turns fully towards me.

One side of his impeccably tailored, ridiculously expensive blazer lifts slightly with the aggressive motion of his arm, almost like a dark, angry wing.

“I have no fucking idea what this looks like anymore, Diana,” he says, his voice ragged with an emotion I can’t quite decipher. Anger, yes. But something else, too. Something that sounds almost like… hurt. “It’s enough to drive a man insane. Were you packing to leave me?”

He stops. Shifts his stance. Reins himself in. “No. Listen to me. You’re going to sit down. On that bed. And you’re going to talk. With words, Diana. The ones you’re usually so damn good at using. The ones you use to build those pretty, impenetrable walls of yours.”

I nod. And nod again. Mutely. Like a bobblehead doll.

I really will say everything. I will. Right now. I even take a tentative step towards the bed, towards the rumpled, inviting sea of white duvet.

Mykola suddenly exhales, a harsh, guttural sound, almost a growl. And he backs away from me.

“At first, I thought… maybe you had scars,” he says, his voice strained, his gaze fixed on some point over my shoulder.

“Something you were hiding. Something from your past. But I saw… there was nothing. Then I thought… I thought maybe I was pushing too hard. Too fast. So, I gave you time. I gave you all the goddamn time in the world.”

He exhales sharply again, another ragged breath.

“But… you… Diana, I don’t even know how to explain this.

I’m on the fucking edge, snijynka . I want to see you!

A naked woman is still a naked woman in a man’s eyes, Diana!

And a naked woman he desperately, obsessively wants…

” His breath shudders, hitches. “That’s…

that’s twice as g-great. Twice as hard to… to resist.”

I will sit down on the bed. And everything will be fine. I’ll explain it all.

Except… except there’s nothing to explain, is there? This is all so ridiculous. So… pathetic. My pathetic, irrational fears.

“I, Mykola… I just need to step out for a bit,” I say suddenly, the words surprising even me. “I’ll be right back. I just… I need to go downstairs. To the hotel bar. For a drink.”

I move swiftly then, my bare feet gliding across the smooth, cool parquet floor, the plush, hand-knotted silk carpets soft beneath my steps. Even the hallways of this gilded cage are warm and well-lit.

I decide, on a whim, to take the grand, sweeping marble staircase instead of the silent, claustrophobic elevator.