Page 95 of Charmingly Obsessed
I must have mixed up the settings on the ridiculously complicated, state-of-the-art touchscreen shower panel. I adjust it manually, dialing the temperature down to a more humane level of warmth, increasing the pressure to a punishing, needle-like spray.
This hotel recently underwent a grand, multi-million-dollar renovation. And the lighting, I realize with a fresh wave of horror, is not soft or forgiving. It’s strategically, almost cruelly, designed to highlight even the subtlest of shadows, the most infinitesimal of flaws.
It wasn’t the worst possible light he could have seen me in. In fact, it was probably one of the best. The most… revealing.
I just… I just meant to do everything myself today. Undress for him. Today. For sure. Definitely. Last night… last nightdidn’t work out because Mykola was acting strange, possessive, almost… unhinged.
But tonight… tonight, I was absolutely, positively going to do it.
With a childish, impotent surge of frustration, I throw the ridiculously fluffy, lavender-scented loofah against the opposite marble wall.
I need a minute. I need to catch my breath. The purple, ribbon-tailed loofah drifts slowly, mockingly, towards my feet in the swirling water.
I rub my face with my hands, hard, as if trying to physically sober myself up from the intoxicating, terrifying cocktail of shock and shame and… something else. Something that feels dangerously like excitement.
Then, with a resigned sigh, I pick up the loofah and keep washing. Afterward, I dry myself off. Thoroughly. Meticulously. I should probably style my hair. There’s a professional-grade, ridiculously powerful Dyson blow dryer tucked away in one of the vanity drawers. I’m on autopilot, a spectator to my own reflection. In the enormous, fog-free mirror, my hands apply makeup with the robotic precision of a pre-programmed battle routine.
The sharp, clean eyeliner wings I manage to draw, with hands that are surprisingly steady, probably deserve some kind of award. I apply my lipstick – a bold, defiant, Chanel red –twice. Because the first attempt wasn’t quite perfect. Not quite… armor-like enough.
When I finally, finally return to the bedroom, wrapped in a plush, monogrammed hotel robe that smells faintly of him, I am completely dry. My back is ramrod straight. My expression is, I hope, a mask of cool, unbothered composure.
Mykola is gone.
Good.
Very, very good.
He probably went through just as much of a shock as I did. Maybe more.
Technically, there’s a second, equally opulent guest bathroom in this suite. And… I don’t even know how it happened, how I could have been so careless, so… distracted, that I didn’t even close the main bathroom door properly. The whole mortifying situation is entirely, completely on me.
And the most absurd part is that the “situation” even happened in the first place.
Ifreezewhen my eyes land on a sweater label. A tag. Protruding from… an open suitcase.
A suitcase that is now sitting, open and accusing, on the plush, tufted luggage rack at the foot of the bed. Half-filled with my clothes.
A few warm, sensible sweaters remain in the suitcase, but my hands, when I try to fold them neatly, won’t cooperate. They’re trembling again.
God, what am I doing? Where… where am I going? When did I start packing my clothes?!
I didn’t even notice when I started packing. Holy shit. I must have opened the enormous, walk-in closet, then rolled my battered, familiar suitcase out of its hiding place, without even realizing it. I don’t remember my own actions. It’s like watching a movie of someone else’s life. Someone else’s panic.
I start pulling things out of the suitcase, but I’ve already packed too much.
Frustrated, angry at myself, at him, at the whole goddamn situation, I crumple everything together – sweaters, blouses, my one good pair of jeans – and shove it all back into the closet in a messy, chaotic heap.
I’ll organize it all properly later. Maybe.
All that’s left in the suitcase now is some random, colorful junk. A spare scarf. A paperback novel. My…
“Diana… what the actual hell are you doing?!”
My own squeak of surprise would have been far less humiliating if I hadn’t nearly jumped out of my goddamn skin. He moves like a fucking ghost.
A very large, very angry, very well-dressed ghost. How did he manage to sneak up on me like that? Again?
I force my throat to work, to swallow past the enormous, painful lump that’s suddenly formed there.
