Page 28 of Charmingly Obsessed

F rez is nowhere to be seen. Maybe that’s for the best. Less awkwardness. Fewer opportunities for me to make a complete fool of myself. Again.

I’ll just… figure out how to get out of here. I doubt anyone’s going to rob him if I leave the door unlocked on my way out. Though that would be rude. And he’d probably hunt me down.

I make myself some tea in his state-of-the-art kitchen, my hands still shaking slightly.

I scribble a rough plan for the Royce project in my phone notes. I’ll send it to him later. With some… professional questions. Keep it business.

Turns out, Frez was out for a run.

He comes back through a service entrance I hadn’t noticed, barely dressed for the chilly autumn weather – just shorts and a thin, sweat-soaked t-shirt that clings to his ridiculously defined torso.

His step falters slightly when he sees me sitting at his kitchen island, nursing my tea. He changes course, heading towards the massive, stainless-steel refrigerator instead of the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

He wasn’t expecting me to still be here. I can see it in his eyes. The surprise. The flicker of… something else. Relief? Hope?

I force myself to offer a small, polite smile. I should have left last night. Crept out while he was sleeping. Avoided this.

“I was just about to head out,” I say, my voice even, carefully neutral, before he can speak, before he can ask any awkward questions.

Frez doesn’t even glance at the contents of the fridge as he pulls out a sleek, glass bottle of water. His eyes are locked on me. Intense. Unreadable.

Is it normal for billionaires to drink ice-cold water in the deep autumn, right after sweating through a run? Probably. They probably have internal thermostats made of platinum.

“I have yogurt,” he says quickly, his voice still a little rough from sleep. “And muesli. And I can make eggs. Scrambled? Omelet? Zoya’s coming in about two hours – I asked her to come in late today. She can make a proper breakfast. Pancakes, if you like. Or…”

His politeness will be the death of him someday.

It’s a wonder it hasn’t already killed me. But then again, his cold, ruthless calculation is usually reserved for finance. His one true passion. His true love.

Marrying me, a virtual stranger, is just his latest move to get his manicured hands on some revolutionary technology. I already knew the rumors about him chasing a reclusive American inventor named Royce to build a world-changing company.

This marriage is simply another calculated move on his global chessboard.

“I need to walk Aza,” I say, rising from the stool, pointedly checking my battered handbag for anything I might have forgotten.

My dignity, perhaps? My sanity? “Thanks, but I’ll eat at Serafima’s.

And I need to work on my… our… collection strategy today.

I’ll go over the preliminary inventory list you sent, and then you can show me everything stored at that other apartment.

The one next to yours, right? And send me Royce’s full schedule when you get a chance – I’ll figure out the best way to prepare.

So I can be… on the same wavelength with him. When we meet him.”

I don’t want to look at him. Not directly. I need to focus on concrete actions. On the business. On the deal. Not on the way his damp t-shirt is clinging to his chest. Not on the memory of his hands, his mouth, on my skin.

“Alright. Though, the collection… it can wait a day or two, Diana–”

“No,” I cut him off, a little too sharply. “We need to start. It’s already been three days since… since our arrangement began.”

And I still have no idea how he plans to pay me a salary for this charade. Which I’ll definitely need by the end of the month. If I last that long.

I squeeze my phone tighter in my hand, suddenly on the verge of just…

walking away. Turning down the whole insane job, the whole ridiculous marriage.

I could find freelance design work online.

Easily. No complications. No billionaires with haunted eyes and hands that know exactly how to make me come undone.

And I’d get paid upon completion. Simple. Clean. Safe.

“My lawyers from the London office, will call you later today. You’ll need to–”

“I’ll sign everything. Without even looking. Any contract. Any waiver. Non-disclosure agreements. Whatever. They can just send the DocuSigns–”

“…you’ll need to set up,” he raises his voice slightly, overriding my flippant dismissal, his expression turning serious, almost grim, “a contingency insurance policy. And a comprehensive kidnapping insurance plan.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his damp hair.

“And undergo a brief security training session. I’ll explain in more detail tonight.

You’ll also have an additional emergency contact number you must provide, someone they can reach out to in case of…

abduction. So they won’t… harm you. It must be with you at all times.

And by the way,” he frowns, his eyes clouding over, “I’ll need to talk to my security team about your current living situation–”

“Kidnapping?” My voice falters, cracks.

He taps his knuckles restlessly against the cool stone of the island countertop.

He meets my gaze – because I’m finally, finally looking directly at him, my eyes wide with dawning horror – and then suddenly, he’s right next to me.

He moves so fast, so silently, I nearly fall sideways off the chair in surprise.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice urgent, his hand coming up to tuck a stray strand of my hair behind my ear.

“Everything is planned out. Standard procedure. Anyone with a certain level of wealth, a certain public profile… they have to prepare for this kind of thing. I’ve been on various international kidnapping watchlists for twenty years.

And I’ve only actually been taken once.”

“W-what?”

I push his hand away without even thinking. Then, just as quickly, I grab it again, my fingers clutching his, desperate.

“You were… you were kidnapped?”

“A long time ago, Diana. Ancient history. It’s not worth talking about.

You’ll be fine. We’re not going to Mexico, or Colombia, or some other truly dangerous hotspot.

Paris is relatively safe. It doesn’t matter.

You’ll be fine. But you need to keep that emergency contact information on you.

At all times. Tomorrow, my security detail will bring you a special encrypted phone.

These people… they hunt for ransom. It’s a business for them. A job.”

“Mykola,” I whisper, my voice trembling, “y-you were… kidnapped?”

I can’t shake the shock. The horror. Everything else – the job, the marriage, Royce, even my own complicated, messy feelings for him – suddenly feels so trivial, so insignificant. God, is this why he changed so much? Why he became so erratic, so haunted?

And here I was, lost in my own stupid, romantic delusions, thinking it was all about me.

I don’t even have time to react, to process, when he lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my knuckles.

Then to my palm. His lips move from my hand to my face, finding my mouth, and I freeze – suspended, like hanging from an endlessly stretching, invisible thread, absorbing the force of his mouth, his tongue, his desperate, unspoken need.

It’s too much… every touch, every kiss, every caress is so overwhelmingly, intoxicatingly good that I stiffen, then pull away, needing air, needing space, needing to think.

“A million years ago, back in my reckless, misspent youth. And the actual risk here, for you, is very, very low.” He offers a shaky, unconvincing smile. “So, you’ll have to wait a little longer before becoming a wealthy, grieving widow, my sunshine.”

I don’t see anything remotely funny about this. Not a single goddamn thing.

I pull myself together, forcing a composure I don’t feel. I grab my bag from the counter. “I’ll do everything. The training. The insurance. I’ll wait for the lawyers’ call. And I’ll sign the contracts, of course. Whatever they are.”

Frez doesn’t respond. He just catches my wrist as I start to move towards the door, his grip surprisingly gentle but firm.

“Walday, my head of security, will come by Serafima’s later today. To pick up your passport. They’ll handle all the official paperwork at the registry office, get the marriage certificate expedited. Then he’ll bring it back to you.”

I try to swallow, but my throat is dry, tight.

Sometimes, I swear, Mykola Frez can read my goddamn mind.

Like some kind of unnerving, supernatural ability.

Because I was planning not to hand over my passport.

To avoid getting that official, irrevocable stamp in it.

What difference would it make to him, really?

Royce isn’t going to demand to see our marriage certificate, for God’s sake.

And in case of a… a divorce… it would be one less bureaucratic hassle.

One less permanent reminder of this insane, temporary arrangement.

“Alright,” I nod, defeated. “I’ll be waiting for him.” I take a deep breath. “Mykola… I… I really appreciate… your understanding . Last night. About… things. I know I was completely awful, irrati—”

“Understanding?” He practically spits the word out, his voice suddenly harsh, laced with a bitterness that shocks me.

He lets go of my wrist as if my skin has suddenly burned him. And all at once, I feel… empty. Cold.

I watch as he stops in the doorway between the kitchen and the living area, bracing himself with his knuckles pressed hard against the cool granite edges of the countertops.