Page 94 of Charmingly Obsessed
I rap my knuckles against the fine, polished wood of the desk.
I guess I will need to have a talk with Amanda.
At least the genius, beautiful, infuriating author of this goddamn prenup isn’t here right now. She went… somewhere. To take a bath, I think. Gives me a minute to cool off. To formulate a strategy.
Her phone screen is still open, illuminated.
A strange, cryptic list in her notes app.She’s counting days.Down from ninety. Today is day eighty-seven. Each preceding day is crossed off with a neat, precise line.
Maybe it’s her period. Or ovulation. But someone as obsessively organized as Diana probably has a whole separate, color-coded app for tracking that kind of thing.
But… I don’t believe this is something ordinary. I know she’s hiding something from me, something way more than her breasts with pointy puffy nipples.
I need water. Cold water. Now.
I don’t even get the chance to close the en-suite bathroom door behind me.
She makes a sound. Quiet, but inhuman. Eerie. A soft, sharp, indrawn breath of pure shock.
Diana is frozen near the steam-covered glass wall of the enormous, walk-in shower.
Standing stark still against the cool, white marble. Her hands are raised, gathering up her long, damp hair with a simple black clip.
She’s completely, gloriously, devastatingly naked.
I know I should move. Step back. Close the door. At the very least, turn my fucking head away. Give her some privacy. Some dignity.
I really do try. I swear to God, I do.
But right now… right now, all I can do is stand here. And stare. My heart is beating out of my chest.
Utterly, completely, irrevocably captivated.
37
Chapter 37 Diana
Iwant to cover myself. With a towel, a sheet, my own hands – anything.
But the terror gripping me is so absolute, so tangible, it’s like my limbs are no longer my own. Useless appendages. I’m a statue carved from shock. It’s as if my soul has literally fled my body, leaving it a hollow, unresponsive shell. And if I’m not in here anymore… then who the hell is supposed to be in control?
My fingers are still clenched around the simple black hair clip, my arm frozen mid-air.
Mykola isn’t… examining my body. Not in a clinical, detached way. But he’s looking. And he’s seeing. Everything. I watch as his eyes, those turbulent blue depths[A1] , widen almost imperceptibly.
His right hand, which had been hanging loosely at his side, twitches, as if it’s about to rise, to reach for me.
Then, he snaps out of it. He turns away sharply, a jerky, almost violent movement. But then… then he looks again. A second, longer, more deliberate look. A slow, lingering appraisal that feels like a physical touch, like a brand being seared into my skin.
The hot, damp steam from the shower, which had felt so comforting just moments before, now licks at my bare back like tongues of fire. Exposing me. Consuming me.
“I…” he starts, his voice a raw, strangled rasp. “I’m sorry. I… I’m leaving. I’ll go.”
It takes him more than one fumbling attempt to close the heavy bathroom door behind him.
The soft, almost inaudible click of the lock finally engaging slams into my ears like a high-voltage surge, jolting me back to life.
I step carefully, my legs trembling, onto the cool, smooth marble tile of the shower floor. The water is way too hot, scalding.
