Page 31 of Charmingly Obsessed

I spend the rest of the afternoon cooking. A decent, edible meal for once. Serafima Pylypivna, surprisingly, not only approves of my nalysnyky – delicate crepes filled with sweet cheese and raisins – but also she devours them with gusto.

When Serafima Pylypivna approves of something you’ve cooked, you feel like you’ve just won a James Beard award. Or maybe even a Nobel Prize for Culinary Excellence.

“You, Diana Bilova,” she declares melodiously, delicately wiping her lips after consuming her fourth nalysnyk with alarming speed, “are a miracle. A veritable mother-in-law’s dream, my dear.

” Her eyes twinkle. “Though, given your current… entanglement… perhaps ‘billionaire’s dream’ is more accurate. ”

And then…

I read it for the first time later that evening, alone in my borrowed bedroom.

Skeletal chestnut branches claw at the ancient window across from my bed. I lean against the cool windowsill and reluctantly open the news app.

On a major global gossip site, a screaming headline about a reclusive billionaire’s rushed wedding dominates the homepage.

Its snarky, questioning tone practically vibrates off the screen: “Mykola Frez’s Shock Vegas-Style Elopement!

Who IS the Mystery Bride? And Why the Sudden ‘I Do’s’?

We’re All Dying of Curiosity Over Here, Folks! ”

And then, nestled inside the salacious, speculative article, I find it.

The handiwork of his slick Italian publicist.

A personal, carefully crafted statement from Mykola Frez himself.

Regarding the “situation.” His word. Not mine.

This particular webpage – its neat, respectable rows of text suddenly morphing into a volley of poison-tipped arrows that strike me all at once – already has over two million views. And counting.

“The legendary financier,” the statement reads, “declined to comment in detail on the unexpected and delightful turn in his personal life, or the specific reasons for such a hasty, albeit joyful, marriage after thirty-seven famously freewheeling years of bachelorhood. Mr. Frez stated only, with characteristic candor and warmth: ‘I am madly, deeply, and irrevocably obsessed with my wife. Which is, quite simply, why we decided to get married so quickly. When you know, you know. And I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life.’ ”

Madly obsessed.

He’s madly obsessed .

MADLY OBSESSED WITH HIS WIFE?!

Normally, I go catatonic in response to sudden, overwhelming stress. My brain shuts down. My body freezes. Fight, flight, or freeze? I’m a goddamn statue.

But this time… this time, something strange happens.

It’s like a dam of suppressed emotions finally bursts inside me, and a tidal wave of rage crashes over me, replacing my usual terrified paralysis with a violent storm.

I grab my battered handbag from the bed without a thought for my keys, wallet, or sanity. My ripped trench coat is still draped over a chair, so I throw it on, its torn sleeve flapping accusingly.

I shove my bare feet – no time for tights – into my worn leather ankle boots and bolt .

Down the stairs and through the quiet of Serafima’s apartment building, until the cool air of the street finally hits my face.

Stabbing furiously at the ride-hailing app on my phone with trembling fingers, my eyes flicking between the glowing screen and the rapidly approaching steps beneath my feet.

There’s a small, ridiculously overpriced boutique in the courtyard next to Serafima’s building. I’ll buy a replacement coat, any coat, while I wait for the taxi. Something to cover the goddamn rip. Something to hide behind.

At the grand, arched entrance to the courtyard, I nearly crash headlong into Nadya from Apartment 15, who’s engaged in her usual nightly struggle to maneuver her ancient, rattling bicycle through the narrow stone doorway.

She tries to wedge herself and the unwieldy bike inside, all while babbling a cheerful, nonsensical stream of chatter.

Her brightly colored, hand-knitted hood – complete with a ridiculous, oversized pom-pom that bounces with every movement – falls back, revealing a cascade of stunning gold hair. The kind of vibrant, impossibly thick hair you don’t even see in shampoo commercials.

Nadya, a perpetual PhD student, works as a bicycle courier to make ends meet. I have never met anyone less temperamentally suited for their chosen profession. She’s a walking, talking, beautifully chaotic disaster.

“Oh, Diana! Careful there, sweetie! This old beast has a mind of its own tonight! Nearly took out Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning begonias!”

Normally, I’d offer a polite, awkward smile and scurry past. But tonight… tonight, something snaps.

I grab the handlebars of her bike, expertly maneuvering its bulky frame through the narrow opening with a surprising, almost aggressive efficiency.

I even adjust the kickstand for her, setting it firmly on the cobblestones.

Nadya stares at me, her jaw agape, her usually sparkling brown eyes wide with astonishment. “Diana!” she exclaims, her voice filled with awe. “You’re… you’re like Wonder Woman! But with… better hair management skills!”

Yeah, well. A little bit. When I put my goddamn mind to something.

I burst into the brightly lit boutique. The air is thick with oppressive perfume, and I barely keep my balance on the polished marble floor in my rush. My heart sinks as I realize the store caters only to plus sizes.

Jewel-toned caftans and sequined palazzo pants glitter from every display—each one seeming to accuse me.

Well, fine.

If fate—in all its twisted wisdom—demands I confront my lying, manipulative, and ridiculously handsome billionaire husband while wearing a bedazzled muumuu, then so be it.

The only thing even remotely suitable—meaning it has sleeves that don’t dangle past my knees—is a violently pink faux-fur jacket. It’s covered in plastic rhinestones and has deep, plush, velvet-lined pockets.

It’s hideous.

It’s perfect.

The two immaculately coiffed saleswomen exchange bewildered, pitying glances. My torn designer trench coat—even in its current state of disrepair—is objectively stylish, tailored perfectly to my frame. I never wear anything else.

But whatever. What do they know?

I’m bewildered too . By everything that’s happening right now!

Madly obsessed.

How could he? How could he do something so vile? So manipulative? So… public?

Lately, I’ve had ridiculous—almost unbelievable—luck with taxi drivers.

This one is a grizzled, seen-it-all veteran with a toothpick jutting from the corner of his mouth. He peels out from the curb like he’s auditioning for the next Fast & Furious movie.

He barely acknowledges traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, or basic road laws.

He just grunts, “Where to, lady?” and floors it.

That’s right. I need to see one particular financial genius this very second.

Oh please, a genius . A goddamn evil genius of torment. And lies.

Everyone’s a goddamn comedian tonight.

The driver shoots a quick, assessing glance at my furious expression and my violently pink, rhinestone-encrusted jacket. For some inexplicable reason, he then asks—cautiously—if he should perhaps be taking me to a maternity hospital.

“You look… like you’re about to pop, lady,” he says around the toothpick still in his mouth.

I’m breathing like a damn freight train about to derail, because I’m holding back a flood of words. Words that are clawing at the back of my throat, desperate to escape. Sharp words. Angry words. Hurt words.

By the time I step out of the taxi in front of Frez’s opulent, minimalist skyscraper and into the private, high-speed elevator that whisks me directly to his penthouse, my breathing has turned shallow, rapid, painful.

I press my finger to the biometric scanner beside his reinforced front door without hesitation. The system, now programmed with my print, grants me instant access.

I can’t think anymore. And I don’t want to.

I kick off my ankle boots at the threshold, not caring where they land.

This cursed, hideous pink jacket – it’s like trying to escape from a badly designed, overly fluffy parachute . I wrestle it off, but it’s pointless.

The sadist himself—my brand-new, lying, manipulative husband—emerges from the hallway leading to the master suite.

I’ve just stopped, breathless and shaking, near the monolithic stone island in his state-of-the-art kitchen. And there he is.

He’s wearing soft, faded jeans that cling to his lean hips and a simple, dark grey t-shirt that stretches across his broad chest. His hair is damp, artfully tousled. He looks… relaxed. Domestic. Devastatingly handsome. And utterly oblivious to the storm he’s unleashed.

“Diana! What hap—”

“What happened?” My voice is a strangled shriek. “What happened?! You… you arrogant, manipulative, silver-tongued bastard! There are boundaries, Frez! Rules! Limits! Common decency! I didn’t sign up for this!”

His easy stride falters.

He stops short, his hand, which had been reaching out to me, freezing midair.

His expression shifts from surprised welcome to wary confusion.

For a split second, he doesn’t turn to face me fully. He actually looks… hesitant. Of course.

He must have some tiny, residual scrap of a conscience buried deep beneath all that billionaire swagger. Looking me directly in the eye right now, after what he’s done, would be too much. Even for him.

“And what,” he asks finally, his voice quiet, dangerously soft, “did you sign up for, Diana?”

And now he looks at me. Directly at me. His eyes, those turbulent blue depths, are unreadable. And I can’t take it. I simply… can’t.

The heat of a thousand suns, a thousand betrayals, a thousand unspoken, shattered hopes, spreads through me, hissing, burning, consuming.

I’m losing my goddamn mind over Mykola Frez. Again. Still.

And it’s so unfair. So incredibly, monumentally unfair.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, trying to stifle the sob—the scream, the accusation—clawing its way up my throat.