DAHLIA WESTBROOKE
The ride to my apartment was quiet and uneventful save for a few glances Tarasov cast in my direction. Yes, I was referring to him as his last name in my head because I didn't know his name. His looks were part mocking and part amused, owing to the conversation we had earlier about me not knowing his name.
The nerve of him to think his name was important enough that I'd go through whatever hurdles he would conjure up in that twisted head of his. I didn't even give a shit about his name, neither did I want to know it.
Okay, the latter part of that statement wasn't completely true. I wanted to know his name, mainly because I was curious what name his parents had given a man like him. Did it fit his hard exterior, or was it the complete opposite, soft and sweet? What meaning did that name hold to him?
My mother had named me Dahlia because those were the flowers my father would often gift her while he was courting her. If only she knew he had a wife on the side, maybe she wouldn't have been so smitten.
I chased the bitter thought out of my head as the elevator pinged open, letting us into my penthouse apartment daddy dearest had bought me. Nothing had changed since the last time I remembered being in here.
The minimalist décor had come with the apartment, and I hadn't bothered to add my personal touches to the space mostly because I didn't see it as mine. My bedroom was the only place I'd let myself decorate to my taste because that was where I spent most of my time.
I headed straight for my room with him right on my heels, noting the little changes in the room. The diffuser on the dresser was gone, and the shoes I usually left discarded by the dresser were gone. They were my favorite pairs of shoes I wore regularly, so I hadn't bothered to take them into the walk-in closet.
I remembered my housekeeper turning her nose up in rebuttal a few times, complaining under her breath how messy I was until she finally gave up and left my stuff where I kept them.
"Not so impersonal. I'm surprised."
The deep baritone of his voice snapped me out of my little trip down memory lane.
"What, you haven't been in here before? That'd be on brand for you, and frankly, unsurprising."
"That smart mouth."
He walked past me, heading toward the cozy sitting area. I'd decorated the white couches with baby pink, fluffy pillows just like my bed. The entire room was a gradient of white and soft pink colors, with hints of pale blue items here and there. Another detail my housekeeper hadn't been keen on, because according to her, 'it was too many colors'.
Tarasov picked up a fluffy, pink pillow, staring at the harmless object like it might attack him. "I don't think I've seen this much color in my life," he commented as his eyes swept around the room.
I threw my hands on my hips, leveling him with a deadpan look. He had absolutely no room to comment on my décor. "You need color in your life. Your house is depressing. And what's with those creepy paintings on the wall?"
I avoided staring at them for too long whenever I walked down the corridors. Every single painting had eyes in them, some had multiple. It was very obvious that the artist had been obsessed with eyes, and he drew them almost too realistically, it felt like they could see through your soul if you let yourself be bewitched by them. It was too unsettling.
"They belonged to my father. He painted them."
"Oh-" I faltered. "I didn't... they're not-"
"They're not what?" He cocked his head to the side, grinning so widely, dimples popped into his cheeks.
A brief wave of weakness attacked my knees, and it took all my willpower to remain upright.
OHMYFUCKINGGOD! Make it stop. Make him ugly! Anything, universe.
I cleared my throat, answering calmly like I wasn't internally freaking out because of his stupid dimples. "I didn't realize they were your father's. I didn't mean to be mean."
"You weren't. You were just making an astute... observation. Those painting are creepy."
"So, why'd you hang them up?"
He shrugged. "Who knows?" The smile disappeared from his voice as he turned his back to me to replace the pillow in it's spot.
I stared at his back for a while, wishing so deeply I had superpowers just so I could prob through his brain and the thoughts it produced. Why did a simple question about his father's paintings make him shut me out? What relationship did he have with his father? Was it as complex and painful as the one I shared with my now-dead father?
When he turned to face me, there were no signs of the grinning man from two minutes ago. It was like a mask had fallen over his face. "You should go grab the things you came here for. I think I'll develop a migraine if I have to be stuck here all day."
"You didn't have to come," I reminded him over my shoulder, heading in the direction of my closet.
He merely nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Hurry up, Dahlia."
For some unknown reason, my cheeks heated the moment my name rolled off his tongue smoothly, and I momentarily tripped over my steps. Thankfully, he didn't notice, or he did, and he chose not to poke fun at me. I successfully escaped into my closet, grateful for the door between us.
Why was it getting harder to breathe in that stupid room? The way he looked at me sometimes, it was almost like he was devouring me with his eyes, stripping me and tearing me apart layer by layer.
I didn't like that.
I didn't like the prospect of being completely exposed in front of this man.
It was a scary what if, and I had no intention of taking chances. I just needed to lay low for a while, and when he finally let his guard down around me, I'd escape and find a lawyer good enough to break me free from his clutches completely.
Time. That was all I needed. Time, and a lot of patience. Plus, I was no stranger to playing the waiting game. I'd been doing it all my life, and I had no doubts I'd outlast him every time.