Page 122 of Sweet Obsession
It hit me—like a ghost pressed into my chest.
“This is what she loved,” I whispered. “My mother.”
Misha didn’t move.
“She used to paint every Sunday morning. No matter how tired she was. She always said the world couldn’t break you if you remembered how to create something beautiful.”
My throat went tight. I swallowed hard.
“When she died, I couldn’t pick up a brush for two years.” I gave a bitter laugh. “I thought if I did, she’d be gone for real. Like the paint would wash her away instead of bring her back.”
I turned to him slowly. “You destroyed the last portrait she ever painted.”
He flinched. Just a flicker. A crack in the mask.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And I know this doesn’t erase that.”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
He gave a tight nod, like he’d been expecting that.
“But it helps,” I added softly.
His gaze met mine. A flicker of something passed between us—acknowledgment, grief, and something heavier, harder to name.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “I’ll try everything I can to see you smile again.”
The silence stretched. Tender, painful. But then—
A sneeze. Loud. Unexpected. From behind the cabinet.
We both froze.
I blinked. “Did someone just—”
“Nikolai!” Misha barked, striding toward the noise.
There was a crash, a clatter of brushes, and then Nikolai stumbled out from behind the shelf, holding a half-eaten croissant and what looked like one of my sketchbooks.
“I was just—uh—doing security rounds,” he said, crumbs flying. “You know, checking for bombs. Or paint terrorism. Very serious business.”
Misha grabbed the sketchbook from him. “Why the hell are you eating in here?”
“Because your scary chef banned me from the kitchen after I spilled beet soup on his Saint Laurent loafers!” Nikolai shot back indignantly. “And also—” he looked at me “—you’re crazy talented. Like disturbingly good. Honestly, if this mafia thing doesn’t work out, you could sell soul-crushing portraits to wealthy oligarchs and traumatize them into enlightenment.”
I stared.
Misha looked like he was debating whether to strangle Nikolai or lock him in a vault.
“And you,” Nikolai added, pointing at his boss, “are seriously in need of therapy if your apology language is ’giant, emotionally devastating studio rebuilds.’”
Misha turned to me. “Do you want me to kill him?”
Nikolai raised both hands. “I’m just saying, next time maybe go for flowers. Or chocolate. Or a heartfelt apology over sad jazz and whiskey—”
“Nikolai.”
“Or a puppy? Ooh, a puppy named Redemption. Symbolic and adorable—”
