Page 3 of Shatter Me (Beautiful Monsters #2)

3

TASH

I scan the acquisition proposal on my desk, sipping coffee. The Petrov collection is arguably the finest assemblage of imperial Russian art outside the Hermitage. My curatorial team has spent months explaining why our museum should house it.

A knock at my office door breaks my concentration. “Ms. Blackwood, the board meeting is starting in five minutes.”

“Thanks, Sarah.” I gather my materials, straightening my jacket.

The boardroom falls silent as I enter. And there he is—Dmitri Ivanov, lounging in one of the leather chairs like he owns the place. He practically does because of his recent “generous donation” to become a board member. Trust him to decide to taunt me by entering my safe space. The place where I work.

His ice-blue eyes lock onto mine. “Please, Ms. Blackwood. Tell us about this fascinating collection.”

I launch into my presentation, keeping my voice steady despite his predatory gaze. “The Petrov collection represents a unique opportunity?—”

“Unique indeed.” Dmitri’s smooth voice cuts me off. “Though I wonder if the museum has fully considered the complexities of acquiring such pieces.”

My jaw clenches. “The provenance is impeccable. Every piece has been thoroughly authenticated.”

“Of course.” His smile is forced. “But there are other considerations. Political sensitivities. Current events.”

The rest of the board appears uncomfortable. I know what he’s doing—using the current tensions with Russia to cast doubt.

“The art transcends politics,” I counter. “These pieces belong to humanity’s cultural heritage.”

“Noble sentiment.” He leans forward. “But perhaps we should table this discussion until next quarter. Allow everyone the chance to reflect.”

I watch the rest of the board members nodding along, already swayed by his influence. The acquisition I’ve worked so hard for, slipping away because Dmitri Ivanov has decided to play games.

His eyes meet mine again, challenging. This isn’t just about the art—it’s about power. And he’s showing me exactly how much he has.

“With respect, Mr. Ivanov, tabling this discussion serves no purpose except delay. The Petrov collection is a time-sensitive acquisition.”

I spread the photos across the mahogany table. “These pieces represent over two centuries of Russian artistic achievement. The Fabergé eggs alone?—”

“Which makes them politically sensitive in the current climate.” Dmitri’s voice carries that edge of authority that probably works wonders in his corporate takeovers.

“Art should transcend politics.” I meet his stare head-on. “Our museum has always stood for cultural preservation above all else. That’s why we have Egyptian artifacts, Greek sculptures, and yes, Russian masterpieces.”

“Noble ideals.” He picks up one of the photos, studying it. “But ideals don’t pay bills or navigate international sanctions.”

“No, but integrity does.” I pluck the photo from his grasp. “Our reputation for ethical acquisition and display has made us one of the most respected institutions in North America. That reputation is worth more than any single donation.”

A flash of something crosses his face. Our fellow board members watch our exchange like a tennis match.

“You seem passionate about this, Ms. Blackwood.”

“I’m passionate about preserving art and historical artificers for future generations. That’s literally my job.” I tap the proposal. “Every piece in this collection has been verified. It is legal. The only thing stopping us is fear, and since when does this museum bow to political pressure?”

“Since reality dictated we must,” he counters. “Or did you think history exists in a vacuum?”

“No, but neither should it be held hostage to temporary political winds. These pieces belong visible in a museum, not stashed away in private vaults because we’re too scared to do what’s right.”

The spell breaks when Gerald Thompson clears his throat. I’d almost forgotten everyone else here, so caught up in my clash with Dmitri.

“Both of you raise valid points,” Gerald says, adjusting his bow tie. “Perhaps we should put it to a vote?”

Martha Chen leans forward. “I agree with Ms. Blackwood about the collection’s significance, but Mr. Ivanov’s concerns about timing can’t be ignored.”

“The timing will never be perfect,” I say, but my voice has lost its edge. The room feels different now since the intensity between Dmitri and me has dissipated like smoke.

“We could establish a committee,” Robert Walsh suggests, “to evaluate the political implications more thoroughly.”

I catch Dmitri’s subtle eye roll. For once, we share the same thought—committees are where good ideas die.

The remaining board members jump in with their opinions, their voices overlapping. I sink back into the comfort of my chair, the adrenaline from my confrontation with Dmitri fading. His presence still prickles at my awareness, but the moment of electric connection has passed.

Sarah takes rapid notes as the discussion devolves into the usual bureaucratic circus. I steal a glance at Dmitri, finding him already watching me. His expression is unreadable.

“Let’s schedule another meeting,” Gerald announces. “Give everyone time to review the materials more thoroughly.”

Just like that, the energy drains from the room. Board members gather their papers, already discussing lunch plans. The passion and tension of moments ago feel like a dream.

The boardroom empties in a shuffle of papers and muttered goodbyes. I gather my materials, eager to return to my office and lick my wounds.

“Ms. Blackwood.” Dmitri’s voice freezes me in place. “A moment?”

The last board member closes the door behind them, leaving us alone. The room feels smaller somehow, charged with an energy that makes my skin prickle.

“If you’re going to gloat?—”

“You impressed me today.” He steps closer, loosening his tie. “Not many people stand up to me like that.”

“I wasn’t standing up to you. I was doing my job.” I back up until I hit the table. “The collection?—”

“The collection is important, yes.” His eyes sweep to my lips. “But we both know this was about more than art.”

My cheeks flush with warmth. “Everything isn’t about power games, Mr. Ivanov.”

“Dmitri.” He places his hands on the table, one on either side of me. Not touching me, but caging me in. “And you’re wrong. Everything is about power.”

My breath catches. This close, I can smell his cologne and see the faint scar near his temple. “Then you should know I don’t respond well to intimidation.”

“No?” His lips curve. “What do you respond to, Natasha?”

The tone he uses for my full name sends shivers down my spine. I press myself harder into the cool wood behind me, trying to overcome the urge to touch him.

“Respect,” I manage. “Which you showed remarkably little of today.”

“On the contrary.” He leans closer, his breath ghosting my ear. “Your passion, your defiance... they command respect. Even when I disagree with your methods.”

“And what about your methods? Using your money to manipulate?—”

“To protect what’s mine.” His gaze drops to my lips. “We’re not so different, you and I. We both fight for what we want.”

The air between us crackles with tension. I should push him away and maintain professional distance. Instead, I’m drawn into his orbit like a meteor caught in gravity’s pull.

His proximity muddles my thoughts, but I force steel into my voice. “What exactly do you want, Dmitri?”

“Right now?” His fingers caress my hip, feather-light. “I want to know if you’re this passionate about everything.”

“Only things worth fighting for.” I hate how breathy my voice sounds.

“And what am I worth fighting for... or against?” His lips curve into a devastating smile.

My pulse thunders. “You’re worth running from.”

“And yet, here you remain.” His thumb traces small circles on my hip. “Not running.”

“I don’t run, Mr. Ivanov, no matter how much fear I might feel.”

“No fear in your eyes right now, Natasha.” His voice drops an octave. “There’s something else entirely.”

The door handle clicks. We spring apart as Sarah pokes her head in. “Ms. Blackwood? Your two o’clock is waiting.”

“Coming.” I gather my papers, avoiding Dmitri’s gaze.

I practically run from the boardroom. What the hell was I thinking? Getting that close to him, letting him touch me? The man is dangerous—I’ve warned Sofia about his family enough times to know better.

But God, the way he looked at me...

No. No, no, no. I stab the elevator button harder than necessary. I need to get my head straight. Focus on work. Forget how his fingers felt, how his cologne lingered...

Dammit.