Page 3 of Charmingly Obsessed
My eyes land blindly on my computer screen – meaningless data swimming before me. The rumors were true. He looks… off. Jittery beneath the surface, the exhaustion under his eyes looking less like temporary fatigue and more like something ground deep into his bones. I saw videos months ago; he seemed different then, but this… this is a different level of unraveling.
A sharp, painful twist tightens inside my chest. Like a needle stitching relentlessly through my heart, puncture by puncture.Concern.It’s illogical, unwelcome, but undeniable. It hurts, physically hurts, to see Mykola Frez looking like this. The wave of it is so unexpectedly vast that I exhale sharply, a shaky breath escaping me. I drag my eyes back up to meet his.
He’s even closer now. Close enough I can see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the way his usually perfect sandy hair is mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. His clothes are definitely rumpled, the expensive fabric looking abused.
“I’m sorry if I let anyone down,” I manage, the words feeling inadequate, weak. “Or if I let you down. But there’s no point in me staying. My departure won’t have a negative impact, I guarantee it. It might even be… beneficial.”
His head gives a sharp, impatient nod. “What is this? A play for more money? A counteroffer?” His eyes narrow. “Did someone poach you, Diana? What’s the condition? Name it.”
“I want to change my career path,” I reply quickly, seizing the most plausible corporate lie. It’s standard, acceptable. Usually.
“Albina,” he counters instantly, his voice dropping, becoming rougher, more intense, “said it was for personal reasons.”
Damn it. If I’d had even an inkling he’d personally review my exit form, I’d have stuck to the vague corporate BS. Why did I tell the HR manager the partial truth?
“What happened?” Frez demands. Seeing him without even a ghost of his usual charming smile, hearing his voice stripped of its warmth, replaced by this insistent firmness… it’s profoundly disturbing.
What happened?My sister is dead. Hanged herself three days ago. The vultures who fueled her addiction now legally own half our apartment because Anya, in her desperation, signed it over. Tomorrow, I sign away my half. I have a temporary place to crash, thanks to a kind old acquaintance, but I need to disappear. Lie low. Avoid attention, avoid anything that links me to Anya and the bastards circling her memory. What happened is that the reason I took this job, the impossible flicker of hope tied to him, died long ago. I’ve just been… drifting. Coasting on fumes in this gilded cage.
The pressure builds, unbearable.
I surge to my feet – too fast, too sudden. In my haste, I forget about the damn desk drawer, the one with the loose lock I nervously fiddle with. My knee connects with it. The drawer springs open with a groan, swinging wide and slamming into the adjacent filing cabinet. Papers spill.
Mortified, I instinctively reach down, scrambling to shut it, to shove the mess back inside, to restore order.
And expose the back of my right hand directly to his line of sight.
Too late. Too late to snatch it back, to hide the scarred, puckered skin. I feel ridiculous, exposed. Like a child caught playing dress-up in clothes far too big for her.
“Show me your hand,” Frez whispers. The command is soft, almost intimate, but it makes my blood run cold. His entire body tenses, his stillness absolute. That rumpled shirt seems tohang off his frame now, all pretense of billionaire polish gone, replaced by something raw.
Watching his strange intensity is the only thing keeping me from dissolving completely.
“Don’t,” I say, louder than intended, snatching my hand back protectively.
“Show me, Diana.”
I shake my head, backing away towards the small space between the desk and the wall, grabbing my bag from the cabinet, clutching it like a lifeline.
“You used to wear a glove,” Frez rasps, the memory sharp and unwelcome in his rough voice. “Always kept it hidden. That’s why I’m asking…” His gaze bores into me, relentless. “How bad is it now? Does it still hurt?”
The burn. Large, ugly, a permanent map of a past mistake etched onto my skin. It doesn’t hurt much anymore, not physically. But it hinders my art. Every brushstroke is a reminder, the skin pulling, my fingers losing their fine motor control. It’s never been the same. Not sincethat day.
Frez lets out a sharp breath. I refuse to look at him, focusing instead on pretending to organize the contents of my bag. Anything to avoid his piercing gaze.
That’s why the sudden beep near the door makes me flinch violently.
My head snaps up. He is sliding his plastic key card into the electronic lock on the office door. Again? Another beep echoes, loud in the tense quiet. A small red light flashes on the panel. Locked.
“What are you doing?” Panic surges, tightening my throat, making my voice high-pitched. The confusion is overwhelming. What the hell is happening?
Why did he come back? Why is he asking these questions? Why did he just lock the door? I thought he’d forgotten I even existed.
He turns from the door, pocketing the card. His expression is grim, unyielding. “This is the only thing I can do. You left me no choice,” he says, his voice regaining a measure of control, but cold now, hard as steel. “Neither you nor I are leaving this room until you give me a full and honest reason for your resignation.” He pauses, his eyes locking onto mine. “For trying to leave me.”
Leave him? He thinks this is about him? The arrogance is breathtaking. My gaze drops to his pocket, noticing the fabric curled at the edges, as if he’s been jamming his hands in and out, over and over again, agitated.
I could mention family tragedy, but using Anya’s death feels obscene. She was murdered, in my eyes. Driven to it. And why does he even care if I stay or go? This is surreal. This isn’t a dream; dreams havemorelogic.
