Page 8 of Crimson Sin
“The point is,” Charlotte continues, “you're drawn to him. And that's okay. Just don't let it cloud your judgment.”
“I won't,” I sigh.
“Good. Now, what exactly does this weekend entail?”
I pull out Daniil's business card and stare at it. The paper is thick and expensive, with the name embossed in silver lettering.Obsidian Vault International. Even the company name sounds powerful and important.
“He didn't give me many details. Just that I would need to attend an event with him and pose as his wife. He made it sound like it would be mostly social obligations.”
“And you believe him?”
“I want to.” I trace his name with my finger. “But there's something he's not telling me. I can feel it.”
Charlotte leans forward. “What does your gut tell you?”
I consider the question. When I think about Daniil, I don't feel afraid. Nervous, yes. Overwhelmed, definitely. But not afraid. There was something in his eyes when he looked at me that made me feel safe, even as every logical part of my brain screamed that this was a terrible idea.
“My gut tells me that he's not going to hurt me. But it also tells me that getting involved with him will change everything.”
“Change isn't always bad,” Charlotte notes.
“No, but it's always permanent.”
Charlotte nods slowly. “What happens if you walk away? If you turn him down?”
I've been so focused on the risk of accepting that I haven't really considered the risk of refusing. My exhibit proposal has been rejected by three potential funders already. The museum has made it clear that without significant financial backing, they can't move forward with the project. My internship ends in six months, and without a major success to point to, my chances of landing a permanent position are slim.
“I go back to begging for scraps. I watch my exhibit die. I disappoint everyone who believed in me.”
“Including yourself.”
“Especially myself.”
Charlotte reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Then maybe the question isn't whether you can afford to take this risk. Maybe it's whether you can afford not to.”
That night, after Charlotte goes to bed, I sit at the tiny kitchen table with my laptop open. The glow of the screen lights up the dark apartment as I type his name into the search bar.
Daniil Zorin.
The results flood in. Obsidian Vault International has been featured in Forbes, National Geographic, and countless museum publications. Their involvement in artifact repatriation, cultural protection, and encrypted transport is lauded around the world. They've worked with the Louvre, the Met, and several global cultural heritage sites. Their reputation is spotless.
I click through article after article, each one painting a picture of a company dedicated to preserving humanity's cultural heritage. There are photos of armored transport vehicles, state-of-the-art security systems, and climate-controlled storage facilities. The work is exactly what I've always dreamed of being part of.
But that's not what keeps me glued to the screen. It's an article buried halfway down the page, posted six months ago.Galina Zorina, founder of Obsidian Vault International, dies at 58.
I click the link. A photo of a regal woman with silver hair and piercing eyes fills the top of the page. Even in the photograph, she looks formidable, commanding respect without having to demand it. The article outlines her death after a brief illness,her role in building the company, and her legacy. Daniil is mentioned as her son and successor.
Something about it makes my stomach twist. The words are too clinical, the tone too cold. For a woman who built such an impressive company, who clearly meant everything to her son, the obituary feels strangely impersonal.
I scroll back and stare at his photo. Daniil Zorin. Impossibly handsome. Impossible to read. And somehow, more than he seems.
I dig deeper, searching for more personal information. There are a few photos from charity galas and museum events, always in perfectly tailored suits, always with that same composed expression. In one photo, he's shaking hands with a museum director. In another, he's standing beside a restored painting, his face betraying nothing.
But in every image, he looks alone. Not physically. There are always people around him, colleagues, clients, and dignitaries. But there's something in his posture, in the way he holds himself slightly apart from everyone else, that suggests a deep isolation.
I find myself wondering what it would be like to break through that carefully constructed wall. To see him smile genuinely, to hear him laugh, and to witness whatever warmth he keeps hidden beneath that icy exterior.
I open a fresh document and start typing questions.Why me? Why now? What exactly does this weekend entail? What happens afterward? Is this legal? Is it safe?
