Page 59 of His Darkest Obsession

Because what choice do I really have?

I grab the most expensive dress—a delicate cream silk gown with a modest neckline—and spread it out on my bed.

"You want me to play dress up for you, Tolya? Fine." I mutter, picking up a pair of scissors from the vanity drawer.

I make the first cut—a decisive slice right up the side seam, far higher than any decent hem. The sound of tearing silk sends a thrill through me. I cut again, this time at the neckline, transforming the modest scoop into a plunging V that reminds me of my wedding dress.

I grab another dress, and resume my rampage. Cutting, tearing, and modifying each pristine garment into something inappropriate and. A measure of my defiance even if there’s a part of me that knows he probably doesn’t give a shit if I choose to dress as skimpily as I can.

I'm halfway through another cut when I feel the weight of someone's gaze.

I spin around, scissors still in hand, and catch Svetlana leaning against the doorframe. Her arms are crossed and she looks down at the strips of fabric in amusement.

"How long have you been there?" I demand, heat crawling up my neck.

"Long enough." Her eyes flick from my face to the massacre of designer clothing. "This is not a good idea, Indigo Malcolmovna."

I turn back to my destruction. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You have ears, silly girl. But I’ll say it again.” Svetlana walks in, picks up a shredded pink dress, and smirks. “This is not a good idea. Anatoly expects you downstairs in three hours."

I scoff. "I don't care."

"As you say." She drops the blouse. "Don't let me stop you."

I do my best to ignore her and stare at the clothing chaos I've created. Something about Svetlana's words nags at me. Sheknowssomething, but she also knows that there’s no way for her to convince me to stop.

So, I push the feeling aside, and walk over to the closet until I find a sewing kit. Grabbing a needle and thread, I start to work, carefully stitching the ruined cream dress back together.

My hands move quickly through the fabric, making tiny, precise stitches. The last two years of practice have made me efficient, and slowly, the torn silk transform into something deliberately provocative rather than simply damaged.

I'm focused so intently on my work that I almost forget Svetlana's still watching me.

"Your needlework is impressive," she says finally, breaking the silence. "Where did you learn to sew like that?"

I don't look up from my stitches. "Necessity."

"What kind of necessity?"

I tie off a knot and cut the thread with my teeth. "My sister and I couldn't afford new clothes every time something ripped or wore through, so I had to learn how to fix things up, and do it fast."

There’s no point in keeping that part a secret from her. If there’s one person here other than Anatoly who might know everything about me, it’s probably Svetlana.

She steps closer, examining my handiwork with genuine interest. Her usual stoic expression softens slightly.

"You have a good heart, Indigo Malcolmovna. Even if your head is sometimes too headstrong for your own good."

I finally look up at her, needle paused mid-stitch. "I don't need you worrying about me."

"Someone has to." Svetlana steps closer and sits down on the bed beside me

Her words hit too close to home, and stirs something uncomfortable in my chest. I swallow hard, focusing on the next stitch.

"Tell me about your sister.”

My hands freeze mid-stitch. "There’s nothing to tell."

"People say that.” She waves her hand lazily in the air. “But they’re almost always lying when they do. You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”