Page 23 of Charmingly Obsessed

W hen you marry Mykola Frez, it’s generally assumed, I imagine, that one would be wearing something… appropriate. Designer, perhaps. Definitely tights. Or at the very least, underwear.

I, however, had neither.

My lacy black panties were currently residing in the pocket of my brand-new, extraordinarily handsome, slightly unhinged husband’s jeans. A trophy, he’d called them, with a wolfish grin that made my stomach flip.

And to add a final, farcical cherry on top of this surreal wedding sundae, the sleeve of my favorite trench coat ripped dramatically as I fumbled my way out of his Spectre at the surprisingly discreet City Hall annex. A minor inconvenience, as they say.

But for one wild, unsettling moment, I had the distinct and horrifying thought that I might end up walking down the aisle – or whatever passed for an aisle in this impromptu ceremony – completely, gloriously naked. Which, given the circumstances, felt almost fitting.

Back at his penthouse, I made one final attempt to get my underwear. But Mykola simply leaned against the chic stovetop with thoughtful, infuriating nonchalance. His eyes glinted with possessive fire as he answered me in a slow drawl:

“Don’t even think about it, sunshine. A man doesn’t relinquish spoils rightfully won in battle. There are far more… creative ways to break his heart, if that’s your aim.”

I’ve barely spoken a coherent sentence in the last hour. Mostly because there’s entirely too much to say, too many swirling, chaotic emotions, and absolutely nowhere to begin.

I will regret this for the rest of my life. I know that with a bone-deep certainty.

But the truth is, I physically, mentally, spiritually lost the ability to open my mouth and utter the word “no” the moment he stood before me in his living room, his eyes blazing with that terrifying, exhilarating proposal, looking like a concentrated mass of untamed energy crammed into a six-foot-plus frame of bespoke tailoring.

Resistance was futile. And, if I’m being brutally honest with myself, entirely unwanted.

Three months. That’s what I’d managed to negotiate. Three months of pretending to be Mrs. Mykola Frez.

Even one month of this charade feels unbearable, a lifetime. But three… three months is the compromise I’d clung to. For his goals. For his mysterious Texan. Not for me. Never for me.

The registry office – or rather, the private, after-hours annex Frez’s connections had miraculously conjured – greets us with an opulent, velvet-draped darkness.

The ceremony hall itself is suffocatingly pompous, all gilded curlicues and heavy damask, and completely, utterly empty. Save for us. And her .

The registrar is a vision of impeccable, almost surreal professionalism.

She exudes an aura of calm competence, as if she marries impulsive billionaires to their shell-shocked companions every evening, without prior appointments, armed only with a vague promise of “passports to follow” and a complete, glaring absence of wedding rings.

“You can, of course, purchase simple bands here, if you wish,” she offers, her voice smooth as polished silver, not a flicker of surprise or judgment in her serene gaze.

“Thank you,” Frez nods immediately, his expression uncharacteristically grave. “We will.”

“Two, please,” I pipe up, as if clarifying a crucial detail he might have missed. One for him, one for me.

My mouth opens before my brain can stop it, offering a completely unnecessary confirmation.

Yes, there are two of us. We will require two rings.

Brilliant deduction. The clerk offers a small, almost imperceptible smile at my anxious contribution, but Frez…

Frez remains impossibly serious. Grim, even.

God, he looks like he’s attending his own funeral. Not a wedding.

Is he absolutely sure about this? Is he sure I know how to make a decent impression on a reclusive, art-obsessed Texan billionaire. I can talk about brushstrokes and provenance until the cows come home. But everything else… the actual wife part…

Frez is probably, right this very second, wondering how in God’s name he’s going to explain this impulsive, insane marriage to everybody and to the voracious society gossips. And slowly, terrifyingly, realizing that it’s simply impossible.

With a smooth, deliberate motion that brooks no argument, he takes my phone from my nerveless fingers to dictate my passport information to the registrar.

And I just stand there. Mute. Motionless. Like a bird with no legs, no wings, no fucking clue how it’s still upright. It’s a good thing Mykola is beside me. Solid. Warm. Real.

He nods at the right times, listens intently to the registrar’s gentle instructions, remembers everything. Usually, that’s my role when I’m around other people. The organized one. The one who pays attention to the details. Tonight, I’m just… adrift.

He slips the simple gold band onto my finger. His touch is swift, decisive.

My own fingers refuse to cooperate when it’s my turn, fumbling with the slightly larger ring, my skin rubbing awkwardly against his knuckles. It’s on. We’re… ringed.

Time in this strange, velvet-lined room feels like a vacuum.

The only thing in sharp focus is Frez’s face.

Everything else – the registrar, the ornate furnishings, the muffled sounds of the city outside – fades into a hazy, indistinct blur.

The artificial lighting in here is disgustingly, unflatteringly yellow, casting strange shadows on his features.

But I’ve never looked at Mykola this closely before.

Not really. His light brown stubble, the five-o’clock shadow that always looks artfully rugged on him, is surprisingly coarse to the touch when his cheek brushes mine.

One of his eyes, the left one, seems infinitesimally stricter, more analytical, than the right.

His usually impeccable control over his expressions, that carefully cultivated mask of charming nonchalance or ruthless efficiency, is failing him tonight. It’s as if his face, his very features, have given up trying to decide what exact emotion to project.

Instead, they all flicker across his countenance in a dizzying, unreadable kaleidoscope. Hunger. Regret. Determination. Tenderness. And something else… something that looks terrifyingly like fear.

“The staff photographer has departed for the evening, naturally. But I could, perhaps… take a few simple snapshots with your own device? For your records?”

“We’d appreciate that.”

At first, when she directs us to stand “somewhere picturesque, perhaps by the rather lovely faux marble pillar,” he places a light, almost hesitant hand on my waist.

I manage a slight, shaky smile for the camera. The photo will be ridiculous. A monument to our collective insanity. Just like this whole sham ceremony.

But after five clicks of my phone’s camera, expertly wielded by the surprisingly adept registrar, he shifts.

Moves behind me. His arms come around to fold over my stomach, pulling me back against his hard, warm chest. His chin rests lightly on my shoulder.

And I… I tilt my head slightly, instinctively, resting it against his.

It feels… right. Terrifyingly, unexpectedly right.

I don’t ever want to see that picture. Which means it probably turned out beautifully. Hauntingly so.

He kisses me at the end. When the registrar pronounces us… whatever it is we now are. Husband and wife. It’s unexpected. And unexpectedly tender. Like this is a real wedding. Like we are real.

My heart clenches with a sweetness so sharp, so poignant, it could force a goddamn tear from my eye. If I still knew how to cry.

As we descend the grand, slightly worn marble steps of the City Hall annex, out into the cool, damp embrace of the evening, it happens again. That intoxicating, world-tilting loss of equilibrium.

Only this time, we don’t stop. We just… slow our pace.

We walk and kiss. He turns us in a slow, dizzying circle on the sidewalk, his hand a steady, possessive pressure on my back, guiding me, holding me. Spinning, kissing. The city lights dissolve into a chaotic, neon fever dream around us. The evening has fully, irrevocably arrived.

We bump into a startled passerby, a businessman clutching a briefcase. Mykola murmurs a distracted apology on our collective behalf, his lips never leaving mine for more than a fraction of a second.

Inside my head, a swarm of questions buzzes, frantic, desperate to break free.

Why me? What about Royce? What about the thugs?

What about Anya? But… I don’t want to ask them.

Not yet. I don’t want to know the answers.

Not tonight. Just for this one night, this one stolen, insane night, can we pretend?

Can we pretend none of those questions matter?

Can we pretend we got married simply because we wanted to? Because we couldn’t not?

“We’ll buy you some tights on the way back,” he says, his voice so serious it’s almost funereal, as we finally, reluctantly, disentangle ourselves and settle into the plush leather seats of his car.

The statement is so mundane, so practical, after the surreal drama of the past hour, that I almost laugh.

At a late-night pharmacy, he doesn’t let me go in. He goes himself. Striding through the automatic doors with that same purposeful, long-limbed grace he brings to everything, whether it’s closing a multi-billion-dollar deal or, apparently, purchasing emergency hosiery for his impromptu bride.

He returns minutes later, carrying two small, discreet packages of nylons, slicing the cool night air with them in time to his decisive steps.

“Thanks.”

It’s no surprise, of course, that he picked the perfect ones.

Exact size. Not too sheer, not too thick.

Just right. He probably accomplished this feat in under five minutes flat.

The man’s efficiency is terrifying. And, God help me, a little bit thrilling.

He’s probably had more lovers, bought more lingerie, than I’ve had coherent thoughts in my entire goddamn life.

The thought sends a familiar, unwelcome pang of inadequacy through me.

In the silent, private cocoon of the elevator gliding smoothly up to his penthouse, we hold hands. His fingers are warm, strong, interlaced with mine. It feels… significant. Real.

Back in the apartment, the atmosphere is different. Charged. Expectant.

He shrugs off his expensive, perfectly tailored jacket immediately, tossing it carelessly onto a minimalist leather armchair.

“What kind of champagne,” he calls from the direction of the living room, “does my wife prefer?” He sounds… happy. Genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy.

The thought sends another jolt, this one of pleasure, straight through me.

I’m still inspecting the rip in my trench coat, a stupid, mundane task in the face of such monumental, life-altering events. “I… I like champagne. In general. So… any kind is fine.”

The distinctive pop of a champagne cork echoes through the apartment just as I step into the main living area.

The polished stone floor is so unexpectedly warm beneath my bare feet that a shiver, not entirely unpleasant, runs through my cold toes.

Frez hands me a tall, elegant flute, already filled with bubbling, pale gold liquid. Then, he drains his own glass in one long, decisive gulp.

The exquisite champagne is dry and crisp with tiny bubbles that dance on my tongue. It feels so celebratory that I down half the glass in a few nervous sips. The alcohol hits my empty stomach instantly, sending a warm, fuzzy sensation through my limbs.

He pours himself another generous glass. And downs it in one go. Again. His eyes, when they meet mine over the rim of his empty flute, are dark, intense, and filled with an expression that makes my breath catch.

I take in the dimly lit expanse of his living room, the view of the glittering city skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The eclectic mix of modern art and antique furniture.

The terracotta-hued walls of what I assume is the main living space, some areas overloaded with decorative, almost chaotic hangings – tapestries, paintings, strange sculptures – others left intentionally, starkly bare.

It’s a reflection of him, I realize. Complex. Contradictory.

Suddenly the main overhead lights extinguish, and the room fills with a seductive golden glow from previously unnoticed recessed lamps.

“So,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky caress.

He sets his empty glass down beside the nearly empty bottle of champagne on the polished surface of the massive mahogany dining table. And then…

And then, he moves.

He presses me back against the soft velvet of the couch, his hands cupping my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones.

We collide in a storm of desperate kisses and ragged, hungry breaths. I clutch at his shirt, grasping his back, his collar, pulling at the thin fabric, needing to feel him closer, needing to anchor myself against the tidal wave of sensation.

Frez pulls away, just enough to look down at me, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing. A short, breathless laugh slips from his lips as he gently but firmly captures my wrists, then moves his hands to my shoulders, his grip strong, possessive.

“I’m going to make you come again, Diana,” he exhales, his voice raw, breathless, like he’s been running a marathon. Not just up the stairs to his penthouse. “You’re going to moan for me. You’re going to scream my name. You will.”