Blind Obsession

Chapter Twenty ~ Alone

Alone ~

Throughout my whole life, I had been comfortable being alone. It had never really bothered me until he left me standing on my own tonight. It was then that I realized I had never really known what it was like to be truly by myself. Ironically, this occurred when I was surrounded by a room full of people.

Phillipe’s paintings took off. Saying a few people purchased them was putting it too lightly.

In the past two months, prints of his paintings had been replicated and sold around the world. From the exposure afforded by that little art gallery and first newspaper article, the media had courted and hounded Phillipe, trying to get a piece of him ever since. In fact, just the other night on the radio, I heard an announcer jokingly discuss the talent that had propelled him into the spotlight. She’d laughed and went on to say that the ladies of the world thanked him for his skills because now they could admire his smoldering good looks.

For once in my life, I truly hated the fact that I could not see what the world sees.

Tonight, as I stood in a room full of beautiful women—of that, I had no doubt—I let my insecurities slip between us.

His success was both amazing and completely unreal. If I was being honest, the level of success he’d reached in such a short amount of time—not to mention the fact that thousands of people now had pictures of me in their homes—was slightly mind-blowing. I had known all along that he would succeed. He had been so passionate about everything he did that it had made sense that his paintings also evoked such a strong reaction.

But, tonight, he wanted me to go to a gala with him. So far, I had declined every invitation, realizing that people wanted to know all about the woman behind the paintings. After all, in a recent interview, one reporter had asked if I was, in fact, real or a figment of his imagination. He had assured the man that I was very real.

Now, he was asking me to confirm it. How could I refuse?

I tightly clutch the journal to my breasts as I make my way downstairs. I cling to it as if loosening my grip on it might lose my place or, even worse, the words might vanish. It amazes me that Chantel was so reluctant to be in the spotlight only because she seemed so comfortable there when playing Diva and posing for Phillipe.

I know it had to do with the content of the paintings, but really, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Like she wrote, Phillipe Tibideau’s work propelled him into the spotlight, and his brooding dark looks made him a solid favorite when it came to magazine sales. One minute, no one heard of him, and suddenly, he was everywhere, not only with his paintings but as the man himself.

He is the enigmatic, mysterious artist, who is undeniably attractive, and he is the man who every woman wants to pose for, but he wants none of that. He only wants her.

It all begins and consequently ends with Chantel Rosenberg.

The gala was at 7:30 p.m.

I was sitting up in the studio, waiting on him. He’d left around twenty minutes ago to get ready while I had done the same.

I was dressed in red silk. Phillipe had picked an evening gown the color of Diva’s velvet violin case. He’d told me that my complexion and my dark hair reminded him of Snow White.

It was ironic because we would be tested tonight. Our foundation would be shaken, and for a minute, I would forgot who we were.

Someone would offer up temptation, a whisper of doubt, but it wouldn’t come in the form of an apple. No, it would come in the form of something much worse. For the first time ever, I would doubt Phillipe, and with doubt trickling through my veins, I would feel like I had nothing else in the world.

For that moment in time, I would feel completely alone.

I finally reach the bottom of the stairs and step into the music room. I move over to the light switch I saw him turn on the other day. The bright lights illuminate the stark white space with the odd-shaped boards on the walls. This is the first time I have been in here alone, and I am almost positive that I can sense her presence here, feeling it stronger than before.

Making my way over to the sound system, I look at the rows of CDs. Each label is different: CR-Canon in D, CR-Requiem for a Dream (Lux Aeterna), CR-Vivaldi, Four Seasons (Winter). This is her collection. This is her.

I look through all of them until one in the back under a stack of books catches my eye. Pulling it out, I read the label, CR-Air. I haven’t heard this one yet, and I’m curious. That’s one of my favorite classical pieces, and Chantel was a musical genius. The fact that she learned to play each of these pieces by ear just makes her even more incredible to me.

Putting the CD in the player, I hit play and wait for the music to begin. Instead of the sweeping strains of the violin, I hear a hell of a lot more than I anticipate.

Suddenly, the room is full of happy laughter. From every corner of the room, a female voice now surrounds me. I stiffen automatically, knowing it is her.

“Really, Phillipe? Give me Diva. Let me play.” Her voice filters through the speakers.

Reaching up, I clutch my throat. My very own breath leaves me, but nothing prepares me for the deep rumble that follows.

“Come and get it.”

“No, you wanted to hear my favorite piece. Remember?”

“Yes, but now, I want you to come here.”

“Well, too bad. You can’t always get what you want.”

Straining with every fiber of my being, I listen to every single second of this intimate moment caught in time. There’s a shuffling noise, and then his voice. The sound is now so familiar, yet in this particular moment caught in time, it’s so completely foreign as it drifts over me.

“Play for me.”

She starts playing.

The room fills with one of the most famous melodies in the world. With absolute clarity, the piece permeates the air so smoothly that there isn’t one part that feels rushed or mechanical. As each rise ebbs and flows seamlessly, it is almost surreal that I find myself likening it to the tides of water flowing downstream.

Chantel plays the piece with such passion that I can only sum it up as this: If the notion of sublime were to take musical form, this is what you would hear.

Air ~ Johann Sebastian Bach

Link: http://blindobsessionbook.com/air-johann-sebastian-bach/

Phillipe has been gone all afternoon. After Gemma left, he decided that he wanted some time to think. Things are not going as planned. Originally, he wanted Gemma to come to the chateau, read the journal, ask her questions, and write her story.

However, like the way everything else seems to be turning out for him as of late, it is not going according to plan. Instead, he’s finding Gemma extremely hard to resist, especially when she’s imitating or replicating Chantel. In his mind, it’s becoming more and more difficult to differentiate between the two. Both women seem to be merging into one, and it’s now almost impossible for him to stay away.

This evening, he makes the decision to go to her. He knows that Gemma has gone back down to study the paintings, and he has a feeling that he will find her there.

As he makes his way down the stairs, he can hear music playing. Air, he thinks immediately. Stopping two steps from the bottom, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, remembering that day. He knows that, at the beginning of the recording, he captured her for a moment.

When she first left him, he sat down in the showroom with that particular piece playing on a continuous loop. But now?

He remembers he hid it away because it’s been months since he’s heard her play this.

Taking the last two steps, he expects to see Gemma standing in the empty space, but she’s nowhere to be found. Obviously, she left the music playing before moving to the showroom.

Deciding to leave it on, he makes his way across the room to the door leading to the dimly lit area. When he steps through, he sees Gemma standing directly in front of the painting labeled Sacred.

She has her hands behind her back, and he can see the journal between her fingers. He must have made some kind of noise because she turns to face him.

“Gemma.” He nods in acknowledgment.

She responds in kind with a slight nod and serious eyes. “Phillipe.”

“How was your afternoon?” he inquires as he moves closer.

“I spent it down in the arbor reading.”

His eyes move to the journal before looking back to hers.

“Oh? What did you learn today?”

“So far, not much. She’s writing about the night she went to the gala with you.” Gemma hesitates. When he doesn’t make any move to respond, she foolishly continues. “Isn’t that the night the press first wrote about her?”

Keeping his eyes trained on her, he nods again. “Yes, it was. Do you remember what they said, Gemma?”

A frown forms as she thinks about that question for a moment. In stark detail, he witnesses as each emotion crosses her delicate features when they enter her mind.

“Yes.”

He narrows his eyes, knowing he just put her on guard. “You do, don’t you? What is it they said?” he asks.

His voice is deceptively calm, but his eyes are giving him away. There’s a storm brewing inside of him, and he knows that she can sense it.

Licking my lips nervously, I square my shoulders as though I am heading into battle. “They said that you broke the ambassador’s nose and ribs in a jealous fit of rage.”

He moves abruptly, looming down directly in front of me. Gripping my shoulders tight, he hauls me up against him, and the journal falls from my hands.

“I was jealous, Gemma. I should have fucking killed him that night.” He growls out, his tone sinister.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I can’t look away. He’s so magnificent in his rage that I can’t help but stare up at him as I see the truth of his words in his eyes.

“Do you know why I didn’t?” he questions quietly.

At this stage, I know my eyes have to be as wide as saucers. I stand mute, not having the ability to voice the question that I am dying to ask, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to tell me anyway.

“Because I was afraid I’d hurt her as well,” he explains harshly. He pushes back from me and turns, pacing across the space. “She just fucking stood there, Gemma!”

His rage is absolutely palpable. I can feel it rolling off of him in waves. He’s still so very angry over what took place all those months ago. I feel as though he is reliving it right before my eyes.

As quietly as possible, I move back a step, not seeing any means of escape at this moment. I’m not really sure what I should do, so I revert back to my questions.

“What was she supposed to do?”

Turning swiftly, he pins me with angry eyes. “She was supposed to tell him to fuck off. She was supposed to tell him that she was mine, just like I told Susanna!”

Quickly, in my mind, I flip through the many articles that I had read, trying to catch up. I need to remember all the details.

Coming up short, I question, “Susanna?”

Shaking his head, he starts to laugh malevolently. I frown, not understanding the rapid shift in his mood.

“Yes, Susanna, the tall blonde the press splashed all over the goddamn place. She was much like you, Gemma. She was the fuckable blonde that he told her I was fucking.”

I let the details, as confusing as they were, seep into my mind. “He told Chantel you were sleeping with Susanna?”

Slowly, Phillipe starts to make his way toward me. I take another step back, and my back meets the wall. Beside my shoulder, I feel the frame of the painting, and I know I am trapped. I am trapped between him and her. When he’s finally toe to toe with me, he leans down, so our noses almost touch.

“The good ambassador told Chantel that I had been fucking Susanna for months. He then went on to describe in detail what she looked like, where we went, and how often we did so.”

I swallow slowly, before I ask a question that I’m not sure I want the reaction to. “Were you?”

His angry green eyes skewer me before he moves to the left, placing his mouth by my ear. “The only blonde I have fucked in the last three years, Gemma, is standing with me now, pinned to the wall, and probably getting wet.”

His teeth bite down on my lobe as I take another deep breath. I’m embarrassed that he is right. I am wet. His rage is beautiful. It terrifies me. It impassions me.

“She let him touch her,” he says, emphasizing each word angrily.

Turning my head against the wall, my eyes connect with his. We are so close that I can see the flecks of gold and brown around his irises.

“I can’t imagine that she would let anyone touch her after you,” I confess, knowing that I’m going to have the same problem.

“It wasn’t her body that he touched, Gemma.”

I blink once and focus back on his hypnotic stare.

“It was her mind.”

My breathing accelerates. Any notion I had about wanting to get away has now been replaced with lust. I want him. I want to reach out and stroke him to ease his pain, but his eyes are wild. I’m almost afraid of the wrath I might unleash if I make the slightest misstep.

“Let me tell you what she wrote in that journal entry, Gemma,” he explains. His left hand rises to cup my right breast. I arch into his grasp when he leans in to me, whispering so harshly that his mouth burns against my ear. “She typed about how we arrived at the gala.”

Squeezing my breast, his hand moves a little, so his fingers are at the buttons running down the center of my chest.

“She typed that I left her. She said I left her standing in a room full of people, and she felt more alone than she ever had.”

While he’s talking, his talented fingers slide inside my blouse, and he shifts back to look down at me. Bringing up his right hand, he grabs the other side of my blouse as his angry eyes start to heat.

“She wrote that she had never felt more disconnected from me than in that fucking room.”

As the curse leaves his lips, he rips my blouse apart. The buttons pop away from the fabric, falling around us as he places his right palm flat on my chest over my heart.

“Your heart is beating fast, Gemma,” he informs me, moving in close.

He’s so close that I have to lean my head back on the wall to look up at him.

“Are you turned on? Scared? Or both?”

Swallowing deeply, I open my mouth and ask, “Why did you leave her?”

Calculating eyes meet mine and narrow. He reaches down my body and starts to undo my pants.

“I want to fuck you,” he tells me.

I know what he’s doing, and I’m determined to make him talk. “Why did you leave her, Phillipe?”

His jaw clenches, as he looks to my left, staring at the image of Chantel hanging in silence.

“Shut up.” He growls as he pulls down the zipper of my pants.

Belatedly, I realize that I can’t. I’m finally breaking through, pushing him into a place he doesn’t want to go, and I’m relentless. Like a bloodhound, I can smell when I’m close.

I stop his busy hands. “Tell me.”

Glaring at me fiercely, he hisses, “Fuck you.”

I shake my head against the wall. I know he’s lost. He’s not thinking about anything now, except losing himself. The only way he thinks he can purge the memory is by fucking it away.

“So what, Phillipe? Are you going to rip down my pants and fuck me against the wall right beside her?”

His eyes flame, and his breathing increases. Twisted as it is, I find that I’m getting off on his fury. The angrier he gets, the more aroused I become.

“You’re going to fuck the blonde right in front of her to finally prove that she had a right to be angry.”

His fist slams against the wall near my head next to the side of the frame. “Shut the fuck up, Gemma!”

Reaching out to press my hand against his pants, I grip his cock hard.

“Is that why you hurt yourself? Do you think you let her down that night?” Squeezing him a little tighter, I glare right back at him. “If she were here, would I even exist to you?”

Licking his lips, his eyes blaze into mine. “You already know the answer to that.”

“And you want to fuck me anyway. Why?”

Tearing my pants apart roughly, he pushes my hand away from him, slamming it up against the wall beside my head.

“Because I can’t fucking help myself.”

Taking my mouth with all the violence I can see swirling in his eyes, I can feel his teeth on my lower lip. He bites it right before thrusting his tongue deep inside. Moaning against his lips, I arch my hips toward him, trying to get him closer. I raise my free hand to touch his side, but he clutches it, securing it on the opposite side of my head.

He tears his mouth away from mine, and I tremble at the lust I see burning in his eyes.

“Now what, Gemma? You got anything else you want to say?”

Panting hard, my breasts strain against the fabric of my bra as I think about my next question. I can tell that he thinks he’s won. He thinks that he’s pushed me beyond my questioning but not this time. This time, I want to know. This time, I want an answer.

“I want to know why you left her.”

Releasing my hands immediately as though I’m a hot flame, he steps away from me and drops his eyes to where I’m propped up against the wall half undressed. With my eyes locked on his, he looks beside me, his eyes trailing over her in the Sacred pose.

I feel my own anger rise. “Why did you fucking leave her, Phillipe?”

Bringing his eyes back to mine, he swallows and simply replies, “I wanted to see if I could.”

Making it crystal clear that he has no problem doing so with me, he walks quietly out of the room.

Left standing in the shadows while the music from the next room still filters through, I reach out and clasp both sides of my blouse, covering my body, as I crouch down to pull my pants back up. I can feel tears threatening to spill.

I can’t believe that I have let him reduce me to this—a person who is aroused by anger, a person who almost willingly let a man have sex with me just to find release. I hate what is happening to me, yet I can’t stop myself.

Sucking in a breath of air, I try to compose myself. Running a shaky hand through my hair, I step away from the wall. I walk over to the journal lying on the floor and bend down to pick it up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move in the shadows.

Somewhere deep inside of me, I know that if she were to be anywhere, it would be here, but thinking it and feeling it are two different things. Gripping the leather-bound book, I stand and turn to face the wall. The six images hanging there silently mock me.

“He wasn’t with her that night,” I say aloud.

I shake my head at myself. What the hell am I doing? Now, I’m reassuring her?

I can’t explain why, but it feels imperative for her to know this. So, like a fucking crazy person, I whisper, “He couldn’t even be with me.”

I turn and start to make my way out. Just as I reach the door joining the music room, I hear her laugh coming from the still playing CD and I swear I hear, He already was.