Page 7 of Charmingly Obsessed

“ D iana.” He’s on his feet instantly, moving so fast he seems to blur at the edges. Suddenly, the small kitchen feels suffocatingly crowded, dominated by his presence. “W-what… We can discuss it. Change any condition. Right now.”

“You need to go,” I say, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts. I dump the shredded card into the bin. “We can discuss… the offer… later.”

“There’s nothing to discuss ‘later’!” He sounds almost frantic now. “I can double it. Triple it! Let me remind you, you already agreed to the job yesterday.”

Ah, yes. The master negotiator. I’m sure he doesn’t pull this crap with sovereign wealth funds or hostile takeovers. Offering astronomical sums like Monopoly money – is this his idea of fixing things? Or another twisted joke?

“I understand. Very clever,” I say, my voice flat, mechanical. “I appreciate the humor. But seriously, you need to leave. Now.”

His hand shoots out, fingers clamping around my elbow. Not painful, but firm, inescapable.

He gives me a small, impatient shake, forcing me to tilt my head up, to meet his bewildered, frustrated gaze. “Let’s speak plainly, Diana. Completely plainly. I don’t understand you. At all. Do you get that?”

A dark, ugly flicker of satisfaction sparks within me. Good. If he doesn’t understand, he can’t mock me for the feelings I try so desperately to hide.

Though after yesterday’s kiss… the fear that he knows, that he saw right through me, is a cold knot in my stomach.

“Four hundred thousand dollars?” I challenge, finding my voice. “For what? I don’t have the qualifications for that salary level. Or the connections. I’m an artist who happens to be a decent manager. Collection managers don’t make that kind of money, not even at the top museums. You know that.”

“Actually that figure represents roughly one percent of the estimated current collection value. Standard asset management fee structure. But fine. Forget the number for a second. Explain to me – right now – what was so ‘clever’ about the offer?”

I remain silent, trapped by the raw emotion swimming in his eyes – confusion, frustration, and something else… something that looks disturbingly like hurt.

He gives my arm another small shake, his thumb brushing against the soft fabric of my sleeve near the crook of my elbow. The fleeting contact feels dangerously close to a caress. My skin prickles.

“If you work from home, you’re essentially working directly for me. Not for the office. You understand the distinction?”

“Alright,” I whisper, unable to meet his gaze, focusing instead on the pulse beating frantically at the base of his throat. I catch the slight hitch in his breath – an accident, surely. “Let me go, please. If I’m going to work for you… then don’t grab me.”

He releases me so abruptly I stumble backward. His hand darts out instinctively to steady me, catching my wrist.

His thumb brushes over my palm—over the burn scar—before I snatch my hand back as if burned again.

A strange, eerie smile twists his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, I’ll show you ‘clever,’” he mutters, his voice tight.

He turns, strides past me towards the trash bin. And starts rummaging through the torn scraps of paper.

My breath catches. He’s actually… He’s piecing the card back together. Methodically. Obsessively. Laying the ragged fragments out on the countertop, fitting them like a morbid jigsaw puzzle until the obscene number is reconstructed.

He presses his palm flat over the reassembled card, pinning it down. Then he turns back to me, his expression fierce, demanding.

“Do we have a deal?”

“Why? Why do you want this?”

“Because I do,” he says gruffly, the answer absolute, non-negotiable. “We jokers… this is how we operate, remember?” Sarcasm drips from the words.

Am I just some project? Some charity case? It doesn’t explain the chase, the kiss, the raw emotion. Or maybe… maybe he’s just like this with everyone. Intense. Overwhelming. And I’m reading too much into it.

He looks exhausted. What if something is seriously wrong?

Why is everyone whispering about him? The rumors about the Arman Hotels blacklist flash through my mind.

So unlike the finance mogul. The unwelcome tendril of concern wraps around my heart again.

Maybe… maybe being near him, even in this insane capacity, is a way to… help? Or at least understand?

“Fine,” I bite out, unable to meet his gaze any longer. I stare at the damn pastries instead. “We have a deal.”

I know it’s a mistake. A colossal one. But the image of his face yesterday – haunted, desperate – won’t leave me.

He picks up his phone from the table, the weight of his stare still heavy on me even though I’m not looking.

“I’ll grant you access to the asset spreadsheets now.

We need to start with the backlog stored in the unit adjacent to my penthouse.

Then categorize the Sotheby’s holdings. Let’s grab coffee somewhere first, discuss strategy. My treat, of course—”

“No!” The word explodes out of me, sharp with panic. The thugs! “Not today! Let’s… tomorrow. Text me the address. Where to go. Sorry, but you need to leave. Right now. I have… something urgent I have to finish.”

“This,” he says pointedly, his voice dangerously soft, “is the part where you were supposed to tell me about your problems, Diana.”

“Tomorrow! I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”

The sudden, sharp thud of his phone hitting the kitchen table makes me jump, my head snapping up.

Frez scrubs both hands violently over his face, rubbing at his skin as if trying to erase his own features. The phone lies near the edge of the table, abandoned.

“Fine,” he bites out, the word clipped. He runs a hand through his already messy hair, his skin flushed. “I’ll leave.” He picks up the phone again, holding it out to me. “I… I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Put your number in. Please.”

My fingers feel clumsy, numb, as I type the digits onto the sleek glass screen. I hand it back. He hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking it.

“My condolences, Diana,” he says gruffly, his gaze finally meeting mine, filled with a surprising degree of self-loathing. “About your sister. I was… a complete ass yesterday. Didn’t react properly. That’s why…” He trails off.

“It’s okay. Thank you. I’ll… walk you to the door.”

Frez makes no move for a long moment, just watches me. The air is thick with unspoken things. God, this job is going to destroy me. I’m already unraveling.

“As you wish,” he says finally.

I lead the way to the front door, hyper-aware of him behind me. I open it, stepping aside. He pauses on the threshold, turning back one last time. His eyes linger on my face, searching for something I can’t decipher.

Then, without another word, he turns and walks down the hallway.

I shut the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the sudden silence. My hands are steady. I don’t look back through the peephole.

I just lean my forehead against the cool wood, listening to the sound of my own ragged breathing and the frantic countdown timer ticking in my head.

They’re coming.