Chapter 3 Naomi
NAOMI
I shut the apartment door behind me and lean against it like I've just run a marathon.
My heart hasn't stopped racing since I walked away from Daniil Zorin.
Or maybe it started racing the moment I met him, and it just never slowed down.
Either way, it's still pounding as I kick off my heels and head toward the kitchen, where the scent of vanilla candles and leftover takeout greets me.
My legs feel unsteady, and I have to grip the kitchen counter to maintain my balance.
The conversation with Daniil plays on repeat in my mind like a broken record.
His voice was low and commanding. His ice-gray eyes seemed to see straight through me.
The way he dismissed my actual date with a roll of cash, as if he were buying a newspaper.
Charlotte is curled on our vintage velvet couch, a glass of rosé in one hand and her phone in the other. Her blonde hair is twisted into a messy bun, pink-tipped strands falling around her face in soft waves. She looks up when she hears me, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
“You're back early. Please tell me you didn't spill anything in your date’s lap.”
I drop my bag on the kitchen table and stare at her, still too stunned to speak. The business card feels like it's burning a hole in my purse, and I can't decide if I want to throw it away or frame it. Time slows as she sets her glass down and swings her legs around, giving me her full attention.
“Nae,” she declares slowly. “What happened?”
I make my way to the couch and sit beside her, tucking my legs under me.
The familiar comfort of our living room, with its mismatched furniture and overflowing bookshelves, feels surreal after the polished elegance of the restaurant.
Everything here is warm and lived-in, a vivid opposite to the cool sophistication that seemed to radiate from Daniil Zorin.
The words come out in a rush, like a dam breaking.
I tell her everything, from mistaking the wrong man for Adam, to pitching my heart and soul to a stranger who listened without interruption, to realizing too late that the man with the ice-gray eyes wasn't my blind date.
I tell her about Daniil Zorin. About Obsidian Vault International. About the insane proposal.
“He wants me to pretend to be his wife for a weekend. In exchange, he'll fund the entire exhibit. All of it.”
Charlotte stares at me, stunned. Then she blinks, reaches for her wine, and takes a long sip. Her blue eyes are wide, processing what I've just told her.
“That's not a date, Naomi. That's a plot twist.”
“I know,” I whisper, chewing on my bottom lip.
“And you're seriously considering it?”
“I don't know.” I run a hand through my hair, letting it fall from the bun.
It tumbles down my shoulders in auburn waves, and I twist a strand around my finger nervously.
“That amount of money would change everything.
I could finally prove I'm more than just an intern.
I could make Dad proud. But it's also completely insane. Who even makes an offer like that after one meeting?”
Charlotte studies me, the playful sparkle in her eyes giving way to something softer. She sets her wine glass on the coffee table and turns to face me fully, crossing her legs beneath her.
“You've worked your entire life for this. You've sacrificed, begged, borrowed, poured every ounce of yourself into this exhibit. Don't act like this isn't fate knocking.”
“It feels more like temptation,” I murmur.
She shrugs. “Sometimes they're the same thing.”
I rise and begin to pace the living room, weaving between the coffee table and bookshelf.
Every step echoes the turmoil in my chest. My mind keeps circling back to the way Daniil looked at me, like I was a riddle that caught him off guard, one he found amusing yet captivating.
But there was something darker in his gaze, too, that made my pulse quicken.
“It just feels too good to be true. What if there's a catch?” I wonder aloud.
“Of course there's a catch. There's always a catch. But you're smart. Ask the right questions. Get it in writing.”
I stop pacing and turn to her. “He already gave me his card. It's real. The company's real.”
Charlotte raises a brow. “Then maybe he's just a crazy rich guy that doesn’t want to get attached to anyone and would rather pay you to pretend for a weekend. And you're a brilliant woman with a dream. Sounds like mutually beneficial crazy to me.”
The memory of my father's face when I told him about the museum internship floods back.
The pride in his eyes, the way he smiled despite the exhaustion that never seemed to leave him.
He worked double shifts for years to pay for my education, never complaining, never making me feel guilty for choosing a field that didn't promise financial security.
“It's not just the money. It's about proving something. That I belong in this field. That my father's sacrifices weren't in vain. He worked himself into the ground so I could get to this point. I can't throw it away because I'm scared.”
“Then don't.” Charlotte reaches for her wine again, taking a thoughtful sip. “Tell me about him. What was he like?”
I sink back onto the couch, pulling a throw pillow into my lap.
“Intimidating. Controlled. He has this way of speaking that makes you feel like every word is carefully chosen.” I pause, searching for the right words.
“But when I was talking about the exhibit, he listened. Really listened. Like what I was saying actually mattered to him.”
“And he's attractive?”
Heat climbs my neck. “That's not relevant.”
“The blush on your face suggests otherwise,” Charlotte smirks.
I groan and bury my face in the pillow. “He's gorgeous, okay? Like, stupidly gorgeous. Tall, dark hair, these incredible eyes. The whole dangerous but sophisticated thing. Happy?”
Charlotte grins. “Very. Continue.”
“There's something about him that feels dangerous. Not in a scary way, but in a way that makes you want to do things you normally wouldn't. Like he could convince you to jump off a cliff just by asking nicely.”
“Sounds like my perfect man,” Charlotte winks.
“Charlotte.”
“What?” she shrugs innocently. “I'm just stating that you clearly have a type.”
I throw the pillow at her. “I don't have a type.”
“Honey, you've been attracted to exactly three men in your entire life. Your high school boyfriend who rode a motorcycle, that grad student who got kicked out for hacking the university's database, and now a mysterious businessman who bribes people with rolls of cash. You absolutely have a type.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. She's not wrong.
“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?
The questions multiply as I type. Then, the most important question of all. What does he get out of this that's worth funding my entire exhibit?
I save the document and close the laptop. My reflection stares back at me from the dark screen. My hair is messed from running my hands through it, my glasses are askew, and my eyes are wide with a combination of fear and excitement.
Still, sleep doesn't come. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts spinning in endless circles. I try to convince myself it's just a weekend. Just a role. A means to an end. But deep down, I know better.
This isn't just about the money, though I desperately need it. It's not just about the exhibit, though it represents everything I've worked for. It's about the way Daniil looked at me. Like I mattered in a way that had nothing to do with my qualifications or my potential usefulness.
I think about the conversation we had about my background, how he listened without judgment when I told him about my father's struggles, and my mother's abandonment.
Most people either offer empty sympathy or change the subject when I mention my family situation.
But Daniil just absorbed the information, filing it away like every detail about me was important.
The memory of his voice when he commented on my freedom plays on repeat in my mind. “Just admiring how free you are.” There was something wistful in his tone, like freedom was something he'd never experienced himself.
I roll over and stare at the window, where the city lights create patterns on the wall. Somewhere out there, Daniil Zorin might be awake too, making plans, moving pieces on a chessboard I can't even see. The thought should terrify me, but instead, it sends a thrill through my body.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it, heart leaping with the irrational hope that it's him. But it's just a notification from my email, a reminder about a library book that's due tomorrow.
I set the phone down and close my eyes, trying to force myself to sleep.
Tomorrow I'll have to make a decision that will change everything.
I'll either take the biggest risk of my life or walk away from the biggest opportunity I've ever been given.
Either way, Daniil Zorin has already altered the course of my carefully planned existence.
The question is whether I'm brave enough to see where that new path leads.