Page 2 of Charmingly Obsessed

I want to stand, to meet his gaze on equal footing, but my muscles refuse to obey. Some invisible force pins me down, cutting off the signals from my brain before they can reach my limbs. Frozen. Bolted to the floor by the sheer shock of his presence.

Mykola Frez. Here. After two and a half years. Looking like hell and acting like a madman.

“Technically,” I hear myself say, the voice thin and distant, like it belongs to someone else entirely, “no one but me can annul my own resignation. The only thing that can be annulled is the decision to accept it.”

God, I sound like a pedantic robot arguing semantics while my world implodes. Why is he here? Why is he doing this?

“Then consider everything annulled,” Frez declares, his voice carrying an unnerving clarity that chills me to the bone. He takes another step closer, invading my personal space, his energy crackling, volatile. “Everything. There will be no resignation.”

I force my gaze away from the unsettling intensity in his eyes, the strange mix of exhaustion and feverish energy playing across his tanned features.

My eyes land blindly on my computer screen – meaningless data swimming before me.

The rumors were true. He looks… off. Jittery beneath the surface, the exhaustion under his eyes looking less like temporary fatigue and more like something ground deep into his bones.

I saw videos months ago; he seemed different then, but this…

this is a different level of unraveling.

A sharp, painful twist tightens inside my chest. Like a needle stitching relentlessly through my heart, puncture by puncture.

Concern. It’s illogical, unwelcome, but undeniable.

It hurts, physically hurts, to see Mykola Frez looking like this.

The wave of it is so unexpectedly vast that I exhale sharply, a shaky breath escaping me. I drag my eyes back up to meet his.

He’s even closer now. Close enough I can see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the way his usually perfect sandy hair is mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. His clothes are definitely rumpled, the expensive fabric looking abused.

“I’m sorry if I let anyone down,” I manage, the words feeling inadequate, weak. “Or if I let you down. But there’s no point in me staying. My departure won’t have a negative impact, I guarantee it. It might even be… beneficial.”

His head gives a sharp, impatient nod. “What is this? A play for more money? A counteroffer?” His eyes narrow. “Did someone poach you, Diana? What’s the condition? Name it.”

“I want to change my career path,” I reply quickly, seizing the most plausible corporate lie. It’s standard, acceptable. Usually.

“Albina,” he counters instantly, his voice dropping, becoming rougher, more intense, “said it was for personal reasons.”

Damn it. If I’d had even an inkling he’d personally review my exit form, I’d have stuck to the vague corporate BS. Why did I tell the HR manager the partial truth?

“What happened?” Frez demands. Seeing him without even a ghost of his usual charming smile, hearing his voice stripped of its warmth, replaced by this insistent firmness… it’s profoundly disturbing.

What happened? My sister is dead. Hanged herself three days ago.

The vultures who fueled her addiction now legally own half our apartment because Anya, in her desperation, signed it over.

Tomorrow, I sign away my half. I have a temporary place to crash, thanks to a kind old acquaintance, but I need to disappear.

Lie low. Avoid attention, avoid anything that links me to Anya and the bastards circling her memory.

What happened is that the reason I took this job, the impossible flicker of hope tied to him, died long ago.

I’ve just been… drifting. Coasting on fumes in this gilded cage.

The pressure builds, unbearable.

I surge to my feet – too fast, too sudden. In my haste, I forget about the damn desk drawer, the one with the loose lock I nervously fiddle with. My knee connects with it. The drawer springs open with a groan, swinging wide and slamming into the adjacent filing cabinet. Papers spill.

Mortified, I instinctively reach down, scrambling to shut it, to shove the mess back inside, to restore order.

And expose the back of my right hand directly to his line of sight.

Too late. Too late to snatch it back, to hide the scarred, puckered skin. I feel ridiculous, exposed. Like a child caught playing dress-up in clothes far too big for her.

“Show me your hand,” Frez whispers. The command is soft, almost intimate, but it makes my blood run cold. His entire body tenses, his stillness absolute. That rumpled shirt seems to hang off his frame now, all pretense of billionaire polish gone, replaced by something raw.

Watching his strange intensity is the only thing keeping me from dissolving completely.

“Don’t,” I say, louder than intended, snatching my hand back protectively.

“Show me, Diana.”

I shake my head, backing away towards the small space between the desk and the wall, grabbing my bag from the cabinet, clutching it like a lifeline.

“You used to wear a glove,” Frez rasps, the memory sharp and unwelcome in his rough voice. “Always kept it hidden. That’s why I’m asking…” His gaze bores into me, relentless. “How bad is it now? Does it still hurt?”

The burn. Large, ugly, a permanent map of a past mistake etched onto my skin. It doesn’t hurt much anymore, not physically. But it hinders my art. Every brushstroke is a reminder, the skin pulling, my fingers losing their fine motor control. It’s never been the same. Not since that day .

Frez lets out a sharp breath. I refuse to look at him, focusing instead on pretending to organize the contents of my bag. Anything to avoid his piercing gaze.

That’s why the sudden beep near the door makes me flinch violently.

My head snaps up. He is sliding his plastic key card into the electronic lock on the office door. Again? Another beep echoes, loud in the tense quiet. A small red light flashes on the panel. Locked.

“What are you doing?” Panic surges, tightening my throat, making my voice high-pitched. The confusion is overwhelming. What the hell is happening?

Why did he come back? Why is he asking these questions? Why did he just lock the door? I thought he’d forgotten I even existed.

He turns from the door, pocketing the card.

His expression is grim, unyielding. “This is the only thing I can do. You left me no choice,” he says, his voice regaining a measure of control, but cold now, hard as steel.

“Neither you nor I are leaving this room until you give me a full and honest reason for your resignation.” He pauses, his eyes locking onto mine. “For trying to leave me.”

Leave him? He thinks this is about him? The arrogance is breathtaking. My gaze drops to his pocket, noticing the fabric curled at the edges, as if he’s been jamming his hands in and out, over and over again, agitated.

I could mention family tragedy, but using Anya’s death feels obscene. She was murdered, in my eyes. Driven to it. And why does he even care if I stay or go? This is surreal. This isn’t a dream; dreams have more logic.

“Are you… okay?” The words slip out, betraying that flicker of unwanted empathy again.

He actually paces then, running a hand through his hair, looking caged himself. “Am I okay?” he mutters, tilting his head back as if searching the ceiling for answers. “Define okay… Never mind me. Just tell me what happened, Diana. The truth.”

Right. As if the great Mykola Frez would confide in me. I’m nothing. A fleeting inconvenience.

“I didn’t want to elaborate for Albina,” I say, trying to regain composure, forcing an even tone. “But I really do plan to change fields. I’ll be working online.”

“What field?” he demands sharply, leaning back against the desk again, arms crossed, radiating impatience.

“Something closer to the arts,” I manage, swallowing nervously. “Consulting, perhaps. Collection management. Depends on the client.”

His eyes narrow, then suddenly light up with an intensity.

“Perfect.” The word lands like a hammer blow.

“You can switch careers right here. I was just planning to focus more on my private collections. Sotheby’s is too corporate, too sterile.

I need hands-on management. You can oversee everything.

Build the division. Report directly to me. ”

I stare at him, utterly stunned. Is he serious? He talks about creating a new department like ordering coffee. His blue eyes are wide, direct, burning with a conviction that feels less like business strategy and more like… obsession.

“You’re overestimating me,” I whisper, perching on the edge of my chair again, feeling small. “As a specialist. And as an employee.”

“Let me be the judge of that. My evaluation is the only one that counts.”

He’s immovable. This isn’t the calculated persistence of a negotiator. This is something else entirely. Something personal, bordering on desperate. A side of Frez I never imagined.

Fine. If lying gets me out of this locked room, I’ll lie.

“Okay.” I grab my bag from the desk, forcing myself to stand tall, projecting a decisiveness I don’t feel. “Deal. I’ll handle your collections.”

I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the locked door. He’s left me no choice. Tomorrow, I sign the papers, hand over the keys to those sharks, move into Serafima Pylypivna’s spare room, and disappear. This ‘deal’ means nothing. Anya’s debts remain, but freelance work is the plan. My escape is still on.

“So, you’ll come in tomorrow?” he asks, his voice suddenly quiet, searching.

I nod curtly. Then nod again, just to be sure. My gaze sweeps the office, a silent goodbye.

Frez stands motionless near the desk, effectively blocking my path to the door. The air crackles with unspoken tension.

I can count the seconds by the rise and fall of his chest – probably three seconds per breath. I don’t dare look higher than his collarbone. His breathing seems to slow, deepen, becoming heavy, thick.

Time stretches and snaps. Thinking he must be moving aside, I take a quick step forward—only to find him still directly in my path.

I halt, flustered, and turn towards the coat rack instead, reaching for my trench coat. Hide the hand. Don’t let him look. Just get the coat, get out, pretend this madness never happened.

My intention to leave is crystal clear. Yet, he remains planted there, an unmovable object.

“Something else?” I ask, my voice tight, strained.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

The statement is flat, almost robotic, yet strangely intimate.

The sheer oddness of it breaks through my defenses. I finally look up, meeting his eyes fully.

The depths of those dark blue eyes are turbulent. Flashes of something wild, almost unhinged, flicker beneath the surface. The charming mischief I remembered seeing from afar seems twisted now, warped by desperation and chaos.

He leans in, his presence so overwhelming it’s hard to breathe. And God help me, some stupid part of me—the girl who was once impressed by his legend—is still drawn to him. The feeling is as inevitable as breathing.

My breath catches. It feels like… like he might… No. Panic flares. I turn my head sharply aside, a purely defensive reflex.

His lips brush my temple. Accidental? Intentional? I don’t know. The contact is fleeting, barely there, but it sends a jolt through me, heat flaring on my skin.

I squeeze my eyes shut, reeling from the confusing mix of fear, resentment, and a spark of something I refuse to name.

Fool. There isn’t another idiot like me on the planet.

He humiliates me, ignores me for years, shows up looking like a disaster, locks me in, acts possessive, and a near-touch sends me spinning?

Pathetic. Back then, three years ago, his cruelty had an audience.

Now? Just him. Mykola Frez, the master of the head game. And me, his apparently favorite target.

Fury surges, overriding the confusion. I sidestep him abruptly, bumping my head against his solid shoulder in my haste. He’s so damn tall.

I reach the door and stand there, my back rigid, waiting. Let him unlock it. This charade is over.

His tanned hand, dusted with fine golden hairs, moves with agonizing slowness. He inserts the card into the slot. A long beep. The green light blinks.

He pauses, his hand hovering over the card, drawing out the moment.

Finally, the click of the lock releasing.

Freedom.

I don’t remember walking out, only the determined stride carrying me down the silent corridor. I slip on my trench coat automatically, fastening every button with jerky precision.

Smoothing the fabric, over and over, a useless, repetitive motion.

Then I push through the main glass doors, into the cool air. It hits my lungs, sharp and clean, forcing a gasp from my tight throat. Like surfacing after being held underwater for far too long. Or maybe just since Mykola Frez decided to reappear.