Page 16 of Charmingly Obsessed

S mart girl.

But I don’t need privacy to talk business. Not anymore. And she’ll owe me these stolen ten minutes later. With interest. Compounded hourly, my dear.

I don’t need privacy from her. Or from anyone else, for that matter.

The days of orchestrating multi-million-dollar deals in shadowy backrooms are over.

I’m not hunting fresh corporate prey, not anymore.

Not spying on rival CEOs’ private jets or meticulously scrubbing the flight logs of my own.

Not working with cutthroat hedge funds or sinking my teeth, piece by painstaking piece, into vulnerable companies.

Now, I’m interested in just one thing. One technology. And when I get it, when I finally wrestle it from that stubborn old bastard’s grasp, I’ll let go of everything else. Everything. Oil, retail, manufacturing, IT. Fuck the safest stocks and bonds. Fuck the hottest new IPOs.

This is my swan song. My final act. Goodbye, thrilling, soulless world of the bear-bull market.

One technology. Something that will actually change the world. Just a little. For the better. Something that might, just might, redeem a fraction of the damage I’ve done. To myself. To… others.

“How bad is it, Will?” I ask, trying to inject a note of boredom into my voice, stretching my legs out, feigning relaxation.

“Not worse than last time, Mykola, my friend,” Larrington drawls, amusement coloring his usually all-business tone. “Listen, buddy, few people appreciate sheer, bloody-minded persistence more than old man Royce does. But I seriously don’t know what the next play is here. He’s a goddamn sphinx.”

“Does he at least remember I’m still in line to buy? That I’m still interested?”

“Who the hell knows what Royce remembers or doesn’t,” the broker hesitates, the amusement fading.

“But there’s no active movement from his end.

Don’t sweat it. He’ll never sell the tech to the Japanese, that’s a given.

And he sure as hell won’t sell to the Americans, even though he bleeds red, white, and blue.

I’m tired of telling you, Mykola – the man’s got his quirks.

He’s a fucking eccentric billionaire hermit. Sound familiar?”

Old Texan Royce. Stumbled onto a technological goldmine the size of the goddamn cosmos.

And now he sits on it, stage-four cancer eating him alive, death creeping closer with every tick of the clock.

And he’ll only sell his legacy, his life’s work, to whomever he damn well chooses.

Not for the money. For… something else. Something I haven’t figured out yet.

“Clarissa put in a good word for you in Ohio last month, at Buffett’s little shindig,” Will continues. “And Vozhansky from Stanley mentioned your name to Royce’s people.”

“Stanley,” I repeat, staring up at the water-stained ceiling of Serafima Pylypivna’s ancient apartment. “Stanley Fucking Stanley. That’s too corporate, Will. You know that. Royce will see right through it.”

“Of course, that’s not how it’s done, Mykola.

But you’re stuck overseas, friend, and the cranky old bastard is Googling you.

And what does he see, huh? He sees you’re the only person on the planet blacklisted by Arman.

By another oligarch with a grudge. He sees you got shit-faced at a picnic in Palo Alto.

He sees that ten years ago, you had a well-publicized fling with some B-list starlet.

Do you get it? In his eyes, your reputation screams ‘unstable rich asshole.’ Sorry, but to him, all you Wall Street cowboys and market manipulators look the same.

He can’t grasp your genius, your vision.

But he sees that you’re erratic. A fucking liability. ”

“I’m selling off assets,” I bite out, irritation flaring. “Dumping the basic portfolios. Everything toxic and volatile. It’s a deliberate move. A statement.”

“Then lead with that when you finally get in a room with him,” Larrington presses, his voice sharp now.

“But where’s that meeting going to be? And what the hell are you going to talk about?

You gonna play golf with him, let him see you’re sucking up?

Listen, Mykola, he’s buried all his kids.

He’s on speaking terms with all five of his ex-wives, which is a goddamn miracle in itself.

He’s obsessed with art, and your little Sotheby’s curated list of Impressionists won’t cut it.

Every asshole with a spare couple hundred million has one of those.

You’re not married. Never have been. No kids.

Jesus, do you even own a goddamn hamster?

What are you going to connect with him about? ”

“Oh, believe me, Will,” I say, a grim smile touching my lips. “I’ve yet to meet a son of a bitch I couldn’t find common ground with. Eventually.”

“I know, I know,” Will says, his voice tired now. “Your legendary charm. But you’ll have one shot to make a first impression with Royce. One. I’m looking out for you here, buddy. One day. And you do not want that day to be something you regret for the rest of your goddamn life.”

“Send me his schedule for the next two months,” I say, my voice flat. “Whatever you’ve got. You’re right. About everything. Thanks, Will. For everything.”

I hang up, barely containing the surge of frustration. No point taking it out on Larrington.

If I manage to pry that revolutionary technology from that moody old bastard’s dying grasp, it’ll be largely thanks to my broker’s relentless hustle.

Of course, he and his bank will then take it to IPO and rake in billions in fees.

But Will could be running this high-stakes, high-reward play with any number of other sharks.

He believed in me, though. Because somewhere beneath that custom-tailored, eight-thousand-dollar Italian suit and the suspiciously perfect year-round tan, there’s still a damn romantic dreamer alive in Will Larrington. Just like me.

I stare at the closed bedroom door, its paint chipped and faded. Diana is out there.

Somewhere in the kitchen, probably making more of that tea I don’t actually like but pretend to enjoy just to see her fuss. I don’t look around the room Serafima Pylypivna has generously offered me. I don’t want its unfamiliarity to distract me.

I should open that door. Go to her. I’ve always been prone to obsessions, to hyperfixations. It’s how I built my empire. But this? This isn’t business. This isn’t strategy. This is… something else entirely.

Something from a parallel universe. One where my dependency on her, my need for her, grows exponentially with every passing second. I fucking hate every moment I’m not near her, not touching her, not breathing her in.

And I’m not usually the type to hate anything.

There’s no fear anymore. Not really. Maybe it’s like they say about falling from a skyscraper – in those last few seconds before impact, the terror fades. Replaced by a strange, almost peaceful resignation. Because at least it’s finally going to be over.

Turns out, she’s too modest. Too shy. Too goddamn insecure about things that drive me absolutely fucking insane with desire. And that knowledge, that vulnerability… it torments me.

As if everything else – the three years of self-imposed exile, the constant ache of regret, the knowledge of what I did, what I am – wasn’t enough torture. Now, there’s this too.

This exquisite agony of wanting her so badly it feels like my bones are on fire, and knowing she’s holding back, terrified.

I’ve always wanted all of her. Every part.

However, whenever. No conditions. No reservations.

But she hesitates, she withdraws, she hides.

And I… I just plummet deeper into my own personal abyss, the most destructive one yet, at a speed I’ve never experienced.

Adrenaline floods my veins, hot and sharp, instead of blood.

I’ll drive her mad. The way she’s driven me.

The way I’ve driven myself. If only she’d finally, finally fucking believe me. Believe in me.

I lower my head, staring at the worn, black-streaked parquet floorboards. Yeah, Larrington . Good question. How the hell do I make sure this whole Royce gambit, this whole new life I’m trying to build, isn’t just another day I’ll regret for the rest of my miserable existence?

I’ve already had a day like that. One is more than enough.

I always knew she existed. My one. My counterpoint. My missing piece.

I just never once, in all my arrogant, self-assured imaginings, pictured that I’d be the one to ruin everything. In the very first goddamn minute.

Never imagined that of all people – me, Mykola Frez, the charmer, the closer, the man who gets along with everyone – I’d be the one to be so monumentally, unforgivably cruel. To her.

That day . September first. Three years ago. My team was supposed to introduce me to the new hire. I didn’t know we hired her to be a fucking marketing designer. Diana Bilova. Artist. My future. My undoing…