Page 41 of The Art of Obsession
You’re the worst inner voice ever. I’d like to speak to the manager of my psyche! I wonder if I could exorcise you.I contemplate all the ways.
Then, who will keep you entertained in such acharmingprison?
At first, I open my mouth, but I don’t really have an answer.
Blame me all you want, Sugar Lips, but deep down, you’re loving the attention.Cherry blows me a kiss, her infernal wings vibrating with her arousal.Besides, you’ve fantasized about worse. Do I need to bring up your pirate phase? Let’s be honest…she says while removing the towel and shaking out her wet curly pink hair.You’re mad because he knows you better than you know yourself.
She’s right. So fucking right. Me wandering around and inspecting the valuables in thisexhibitconfirms it.
Do you want me to hold your hand while you stomp around or are you good?she volunteers, dressed in a mini skirt and corset bodice.
I’m not good. Far from it. So, I accept her hand, coping in the only way I know. I practically just talked myself out of hating whatever this is. Eventually, it’s going to slam against me hard, and I’m going to crash. But I’m sure Acheron will be there when it does.
There, now, Cherry comforts me, tilting her head onto my shoulder.How are you?
I wince because even the clear walls have Renaissance-era stained glass windows. I could never bring myself to shatter the glass. Even the floor is a masterpiece. The bed is from the Rococo period.
Only now I realize all I’m wearing is a sheer nightgown. My nipples protrude through the silk, and the outline of my pussy is prominent.
I look around for something, but the antique wardrobe has even skimpier pieces of fabric, all vintage. Because I can’t even rip the clothes apart in this goddamned gallery.
Eventually, I give up trying to find something, and I wrap the satin sheets of the bed around myself while taking the time to explore.
This place…this exhibit is a suite. It’s a living museum, a symphony of history and artistry, designed to torment me. Cherry lights up my vision next to me, her hand is warm in mine, grounding me as my eyes flit over the overwhelming beauty of this gilded prison.
The attached bathroom is a marvel of gilded antique furnishings. The claw foot tub gleams like liquid gold with a pristine, porcelain interior. The sink is mounted on a carved marble pedestal with swan neck-shaped faucets. Even the mirroris a work of art. The floor tiles form a mosaic of intricate floral patterns, and the air smells faintly of lavender and aged wood.
The sitting room next to the bedroom is small and cozy with a black-and-white silent film from the 1920s flickering on an old projector, casting shadows that dance across the room like restless spirits. A tufted fainting couch sits in the center, its upholstery a deep emerald green, inviting and infuriatingly perfect.
Infuriating. Acheron isinfuriating.
All this beauty feels like it’s scolding me.
Even the floor is a masterpiece. It’s a mosaic of parquet wood, I’d wager French from the 17th century.
And then there’s thebed. A monumental piece from the Rococo period, its headboard carved with swirling designs of roses and vines. A sheer otherworldly canopy surrounds it. Silk sheets and velvet throws complete the ensemble, all in shades of cream and gold.
Cherry tilts her head onto my shoulder, her voice soft but teasing.You’re fighting it so hard, but admit it, you’re impressed, aren’t you?
I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Or I’m just plotting his demise.”
Well, if you’re going for dramatic, you might as well start with a monologue in front of that Renaissance stained glass. Nothing says ‘I’m about to end you’ like a good, theatrical speech while surrounded by priceless antiques. Or you could throw yourself down onto the bed and weep profusely.
Why do I even listen to you? You’re like a broken compass pointing straight to disaster.
You say the sweetest things, Evie,she kisses my cheek and struts about the room.
You’re not just an inner voice. You’re an inner saboteur.
Self-sabotage has always been your thing, Evie. Hasn’t it?
Don’t push it,I warn her in a feral tone.I’m in a historian’s worst nightmare and wet dream all rolled into one.My voice cracks slightly, and I hate myself for it.
But for now…I’ll take whatever small comfort I can get…before the crash.
Cherry just hums and brushes her thumb against the back of my hand. It’s a small, almost motherly gesture that makes me want to scream. And cry.
I pace the room hesitantly. My fingers itch to touch each artifact, but I hold back, my respect outweighing my fury. A delicate porcelain vase catches my eye followed by a grandfather clock.
