Page 30 of Charmingly Obsessed
I ’d initially thought even a month of this sham marriage would be an exercise in exquisite, unbearable torture. Turns out, surviving a single goddamn day as Mrs. Mykola Frez is already pushing the limits of my sanity.
The public detonation starts for me around noon, though the fuse was lit the moment Frez decided I was the key to his new technology. I’m seeking a moment of normalcy in a group chat with old friends when the first link drops, then another and another.
It turns out the marriage of Mykola Frez—elusive billionaire and financial demigod—is major news, creating waves far beyond the usual Instagram gossip.
It’s everywhere.
Frozen, I clutch my phone and scroll through an avalanche of headlines, blog posts, and unhinged Twitter threads.
My name, Diana Bilova, is suddenly everywhere, inexplicably linking me as a “talented emerging artist” (thanks, I guess?) to a “financial genius” as millions dissect our supposed whirlwind romance.
Unable to help myself, my trembling fingers type my new, ludicrous name—Diana Frez—into the Google search bar. I brace for impact and there it is: the photo, splashed across a dozen news sites.
Yesterday’s photo. From that surreal, after-hours ceremony at the City Hall annex.
Frez. Standing behind me, his arms wrapped possessively around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. Me. Looking… surprisingly serene. Almost happy. We look… God, we actually look good together. Like a real couple.
The thought sends a sharp, unwelcome pang through my chest. I will not save this photo. I will not. I absolutely will not. My finger hovers over the ‘save image’ option anyway.
It’s obvious now. His high-powered publicist, the one from that slick Italian PR agency he keeps on retainer, must have orchestrated this media blitz.
Leaked the photo. Crafted the narrative. Where else would the international press have gotten the picture so quickly? I highly doubt Business Insider has “sources” embedded in our local marriage registry office, bribing clerks for candid wedding snaps.
Why so fast? The question slams into me, almost knocking the air from my lungs. I don’t understand why I’m so blindsided by this, so… anxious.
Of course, Frez needs to make this official, public. To make it look natural, believable, to the eccentric Royce. A man like Mykola Frez doesn’t just acquire a wife out of thin air, like a new piece of art for his collection.
Everything is going according to his plan. His meticulous, manipulative, ruthlessly efficient plan. And I’m just a pawn. A pretty, slightly damaged pawn, perhaps, but a pawn nonetheless. And I’ll play my part. I’ll help him acquire his precious technology.
I’ll even reach out to my meager contacts in the art world, try to connect with the curators of the Paris galleries Royce supposedly plans to visit. We’ll pull this off. Or rather, he will. I’ll just be… the supporting actress in his blockbuster drama.
The next blow comes in the form of a flurry of messages pinging on my work phone, the one Frez’s team had couriered over this morning.
Apparently, no one in the world of Frez Enterprises wakes up before noon. Or maybe they were all just waiting for the official announcement before unleashing their… congratulations?
Aisana, the perky, eternally optimistic marketing assistant: OMG, Diana!!! Yay! SO happy for you! But also, kinda bummed – I already picked out a dress for the wedding! (P.S. I totally won 100 bucks in the office pool! Drinks on me when you come visit! We miss you! XOXO)
She… picked out a dress for our wedding? And there was an office pool?
How in God’s name did my sudden, inexplicable marriage to the elusive Mykola Frez become the subject of inter-departmental wagering?
A cold, clammy sweat breaks out on my skin.
Was my pathetic, schoolgirl crush on him really that obvious? Did everyone know? But why would they assume there was even a snowball’s chance in hell he’d ever look at me twice, let alone marry me? Because of that humiliating kiss in the kitchen? That was three years ago. Ancient history.
But apparently, office workers have memories like elephants. And a disturbing penchant for gossip.
Hugh, the smarmy VP of Something or Other, the one who’d been instrumental in the prank that led to the kitchen incident: That was my doing, btw. The betting pool. Told you she had a thing for the boss! And everyone was SO against it! Said I was crazy! Pay up, suckers!
I grit my teeth, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over me. That night… the “betting”… it’s a blur. I barely remember the details, overshadowed as they were by the horror of what happened before. The public evisceration of my art. The agonizing burn.
But I remember the crushing certainty that Frez’s kiss was just a cruel game, a toxic belief fueled in part by Hugh’s leering insinuations and smug pronouncements.
Albina, the elegant, ever-professional HR Director, the only sane one in the bunch: Diana, my dear. You both have single-handedly restored my faith in humanity. And in romance. I am absolutely certain you will be wonderfully happy together. Wishing you both a lifetime of joy.
Her message, so sincere, makes me squirm the most. Because it’s all a lie. A sham. A three-month contract with a built-in expiration date.
I try to bury myself in work, to lose myself in the complex, chaotic tangle of Frez’s art collection. Categorizing his eclectic mix of single purchases – everything from Old Masters to emerging contemporary artists – is an absolute challenge. But it’s also an intriguing, stimulating experiment.
God, everyone at the office, everyone who knows him , everyone who knows me , must be in utter shock that he married me.
I’m not even going to look at Instagram. Those impossibly perfect, surgically enhanced influencers have probably already broken down that damned wedding photo pixel by pixel, analyzing my flaws, my frumpy dress, my terrified smile.
Someone, a well-meaning but gossipy intern, once showed me the kinds of DMs Frez used to get.
Before he hired a dedicated social media manager just to filter out the deluge of unsolicited advances.
Tons of nude photos. Gigabytes of them. Flooding his inbox every single week.
Impossibly beautiful women with flawless bodies and professionally sculpted faces, all vying for his attention, his approval, his… patronage.
And he chose… me . For this.
A deep, booming laugh echoes through Serafima Pylypivna’s sprawling apartment, startling me from my miserable reverie.
I shake off the lingering unease and follow the sound.
Serafima’s breathless cackles fill the room, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks. Her curmudgeonly old dachshund Aza joins in, bouncing and barking around her armchair in wheezing delight.
“Serafima Pylypivna?” I venture, hovering uncertainly in the doorway of her cluttered, book-lined study.
“Ah, Diana! My little rose!” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye with a lace-trimmed handkerchief, her laughter subsiding into contented chuckles. “Come in, my dear, come in! Why are you standing there like Botticelli’s Venus, perpetually emerging from the sea foam of your own anxieties?”
“What… What’s so funny?”
She’s sitting at her computer – an ancient, clunky desktop relic from the time before human civilization regressed into a shorthand of emojis and GIFs.
“Oh… just a recipe, my darling!” she says, her eyes twinkling with a mischief that instantly puts me on high alert.
“Or rather, a particularly… piquant recommendation from a fellow connoisseur of life’s finer pleasures!
Don’t you mind an old woman’s foolishness.
” She lets out another delighted chuckle.
Aza barks again, her tail a blurry wag. “Now, tell me, who are we inviting for our New Year’s extravaganza this month?
We absolutely must have Nadya from Apartment 15 over.
She’s on another one of her ridiculous crash diets, you know.
Such nonsense needs to be nipped in the bud with extreme prejudice. And a very large slice of honey cake.”
But I can’t get a single word out.
Because on her computer screen, displayed in all its high-resolution glory, is an online article.
About Mykola Frez’s sudden, shocking marriage. To me. And that damn photo, the one from the City Hall annex, is right there. Square in the middle of the page. Mocking me. I cannot look at it again. I won’t.
She laughed at the news.
“I’ll… I’ll tell you later,” I manage, my voice tight.
I turn on my heel and march back to the sanctuary of my borrowed room, my movements stiff, jerky, like I’m walking on stilts. Stilts of pure frustration and simmering resentment. I’m a goddamn circus act.
I force myself to focus. On logic. On reason.
Sure, it’s probably hilarious to everyone else now. And it’ll be even funnier, a veritable banquet of schadenfreude, in three months when they realize Frez finally came to his senses and got a quick, quiet, ruthlessly efficient divorce.
But no matter what happens then… I’ll still have last night. And maybe… maybe the nights to come. The memory of his hands, his mouth, his body… those are mine. Untouchable. Unforgettable.
Frez helped me when I desperately needed it. He stepped in, a terrifying, avenging angel in a bespoke suit, and saved me from… well, from something truly awful. And now, I’ll help him. It’s a deal. A transaction. Nothing more.
It’s not his fault that this is… the way it is. That I’m a tangled mess of insecurities and inappropriate, unrequited feelings.
But still. I would have appreciated a warning from him. A courtesy call. Maybe a fucking heads-up text message before he decided to broadcast our sham marriage across the entire goddamn globe?
I need time to emotionally and mentally prepare for unexpected, life-altering plot twists. Especially when I’m the unexpected, life-altering plot twist.