Possessed hearts - стр. 26

I got into a taxi and ordered it to take me to the hotel, and called Markus's number.

– I need Brandon's number. It's an emergency," I said briefly.

Yeah, I didn't have Brandon's number. I never imagined I'd be dealing with him.

Markus had sent me the number, thankfully without further question, and I dialled it immediately. My fingers did it on their own, regardless of my desire to never communicate with Grayson. I hated him.

But I needed to know. Why he needed that picture. Because he knew damn well I was the author.

– Brandon Grayson. – I heard his beautiful, low voice.

– Why do you want that picture? – I asked in a joking tone.

Apparently, he chuckled. I could feel it.

– It's you, Maria. I have to admit, you're a great photographer.

– I know I am. So why do you want this picture?

– Did you sign the contract?

– I did.

– I don't have to answer to you.

– And I don't have to sell it to you. – His calm, indifferent tone burned me.

– You already did.

– But I still haven't disclosed the amount.

– You're right, it's about time.

I desperately didn't want to sell him my picture. No, hell no!

– How much would you give for it?

– That's not a fair question. You're the author, it's your right to set the price.

– Then I want it for… Let's say a million. – I said that high figure on purpose. I don't think he'd want to buy a small photograph for that kind of money.

– It's a decent amount for a decent job," Brandon said, as if nothing had happened.

– Are you kidding? – I blurted out.

– Is that the final price?

– Do you want that picture that badly? – I couldn't help myself.

– Do I? No. But I like its aesthetics.

– Then I'm not selling it.

– It's too late. You signed a contract. You have to sell it to me.

– You know what, Brandon? I'll sell you my work, but only because I want the damn exhibit! And you're a scumbag like the world has never seen!

He laughed.

– You make it sound like a compliment, Maria. What's the final sum?

– I've already given it. Pounds sterling.

– That's good. It's already in your account. I'll be at your hotel tomorrow, 8pm. We can have dinner together and I'll pick up my purchase.

– Don't put conditions on me," I replied irritably.

– It's not conditions, it's just routine.

Dinner with Grayson. Never. How will I be able to look at him and hide my dislike, my disgust? For my eyes will burn with hatred.

But if he doesn't care, he can take his purchase and go to hell.

– It's a deal. Eight o'clock tomorrow at the hotel restaurant. – I passed out.

I was full of contradictory feelings, and I thought my head was spinning, even though it was impossible. But these feelings, these emotions sat inside me, pressing, tormenting, tearing. A worthless conversation with that narcissist Mr. Grayson – and I fell into a state I'd never known. I'm lying. The same state that had come over me in the church eight years ago when that bastard had said to my mother, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Mroczek, I'm terribly late." Those words rang in my head like the striking of a bell. Does that mean my head is as empty as the dome of a church? No. It's bursting. The thoughts. They're like the strikes of a bell, like Brandon's words, like everything around him and connected to him. My hatred. For him. For that day. For myself.