Page 35 of Charmingly Obsessed

W hen we return to the subject of mocking my new violently pink wardrobe, I take out my phone.

I show him the list of Parisian curators we can approach to get close to Royce. And the meticulously compiled list of items I’ll need to convincingly embody the role of Mykola Frez’s sophisticated, art-loving new wife in Paris. Designer dresses. Understated jewelry. The right shoes. The right bag.

I’ve also prepared a preliminary draft of our “legend” – how we met, our whirlwind romance, why the sudden wedding – so we’ll at least answer any intrusive questions the same way. Consistency is key in these matters.

It would be ridiculous if even a few key elements of my Parisian persona didn’t reflect my new, temporary, billionaire-adjacent status.

And Mykola Frez can certainly afford to splurge on a pair of Loro Piana loafers and a classic Chanel or Gucci handbag for his fake wife. It’s a business expense, after all.

But I didn’t expect him to study the lists so carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration.

I search for the right words to explain my choices, to justify the expense, so I don’t come off as some kind of grasping, luxury-obsessed beggar.

Personally, I think those ubiquitous quilted Chanel flap bags are a bit…

outdated. But they scream “moneyed wife.”

“I’m looking for lingerie on this list.”

A knot forms in my chest. My mind immediately starts to race, to panic.

I haven’t undressed completely in front of him yet. Not really. Not in the full, unforgiving light of day.

And the longer this particular charade drags on, the more terrifying the whole inevitable event seems.

“I sincerely hope you’re not planning to show me to Royce in my lingerie,” I say, my voice suddenly cold, sharp, defensive. “Because if that’s the desired effect you’re going for, then you definitely should have picked someone else for the role. Someone… more professionally equipped.”

He raises his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine, narrowed, glinting with something dangerous.

“I specifically checked to ensure it wasn’t on the list, Diana,” he says, his voice equally cold now, deliberately, terrifyingly mimicking the sharp, icy edge of my own tone.

“Because you most definitely won’t be needing any.

Not with me. Do you remember how quickly you…

lost it… in the kitchen this morning? A minute?

Two, tops? I’m merely trying to save on unnecessary expenditures here, wife. ”

I don’t look away, though my carefully constructed posture loses some of its defiant firmness.

“And I wouldn’t recommend…” His voice drops lower now, quieter, but with a layered, menacing tone that makes icy chills run down my shoulders, prickling my skin.

“That you ever again suggest the presence of other men near you in the same sentence as the word ‘lingerie.’ Never. You’d understand me much better then, Diana.

But from that particular side… I wouldn’t recommend you ever find out. ”

He hands my phone back to me.

“Adjust the list as you see fit. Everything can be ordered online. I’ll send it all to Amanda in New York. She’ll handle the logistics–”

“We’ll talk tomorrow.” He interrupts with a curt, dismissive nod. “And I won’t be adjusting anything in such a clearly well-thought-out, strategically sound list. Tomorrow, we’ll go into more detail. We’ll figure everything out.”

He runs a hand down his face, a gesture of sudden, overwhelming weariness.

“Diana… Those dresses. In the guest room. The ones that didn’t quite fit you yesterday? Karina bought them. Remember Karina? From the office? She quit her position as my long-suffering executive assistant last year to head the city’s Lesbian Alliance. Apparently, she found her true calling.”

I don’t know why he’s raising a sarcastic eyebrow like that. I know perfectly well he hasn’t slept with any of his assistants. Or anyone else who works for him. Ever. Except for me. His temporary, contractual, soon-to-be ex-wife.

It shouldn’t surprise me that he so easily, so accurately, anticipated my unspoken reaction to the guest room dresses. But it still feels unsettling. To wonder what other unspoken thoughts, what other hidden insecurities, he’s picking up on with that unnerving, laser-like perception of his.

“She bought them just in case. So any unexpected overnight guests would have something appropriate to change into. Partygoers. Hangout guests. You know.”

“Okay. You… you don’t need to explain, Mykola.”

He pulls me close then, distracting me with a series of playful, nuzzling kisses against my neck, my temple, my cheek.

Distracting me… because I suddenly realize that my current, extremely comfortable, borrowed Frez-branded hoodie is being stealthily inched upwards.

And my panties are being tugged slowly downwards.

He’s deliberately caressing the bare, sensitive skin of my legs, his fingers tracing lazy, intoxicating circles.

“We’re both old enough now, Diana, you can surely pull them down yourself. Or… do you perhaps want to watch me do it for you?”

I remain silent. Because… God help me, I want him to do it. I want him to undress me. Slowly. Thoroughly.

“Aha.” He says softly, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest, as if he can read my every thought, every secret, shameful desire. “In that case… it would be my distinct honor, wife.”

The next morning, I wake up in a decidedly, almost miraculously, better mood. All because, apparently, I need to drink less champagne and talk more. A lot more.

Last night, after the pizza, after the lists, after the negotiations, Mykola and I talked.

For hours. Until well past midnight. Curled up on his ridiculously comfortable couch under a soft cashmere throw, with the glittering city lights spread out before us like a carpet of fallen stars.

I could listen to him talk endlessly, no matter where his brilliant, restless mind takes him.

From quantum physics to Renaissance art to the socio-economic implications of cryptocurrency.

I can’t think about the sex though. Not yet. Because that’s still beyond my comprehension. Still too raw. Too new. Too much.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe I just need to… experience it all. Lean into the chaos. And then… move on.

How do you even learn to experience things in the moment, to be truly present, when so much is happening, so fast, so intensely?

And yet… we haven’t actually done anything truly… extraordinary. Sexually, I mean. We’ve mostly just stuck to the missionary position. Basic. Vanilla. And I’ve only given him that one, slightly disastrous, champagne-fueled blowjob in the living room.

I try to open the heavy, stone-and-cherry-wood door and leave his bedroom, intending to make myself some tea, maybe explore his undoubtedly well-stocked library. But something’s wrong. The door won’t budge.

I input the code he gave me last night. My birthday. I place my finger on the scanner.

All the lights on the control panel glow red. Harshly. Angrily. Access denied.

I look around the opulent, minimalist bedroom. My phone isn’t where I left it on the nightstand.

And I’m just in his hoodie. One of his ridiculously soft cashmere hoodies. Kindly provided late last night. Which means, of course, that I don’t even have underwear on. Again!

I tug at the door handle again. What the actual hell!

I sit carefully on the edge of the enormous, rumpled bed, my bare feet dangling in the air, not quite reaching the plush sheepskin rug.

He locked me in. In his bedroom.

He talked about locks that can only be closed from the inside. For privacy. For security. And last morning, he talked about abductions. About contingency plans. About emergency contacts.

So this is how it is! This is his idea of protection?

Well, and where’s my goddamn emergency contact list? The one I’m supposed to use to tell them about the ransom demands?

I laugh. A hysterical, slightly unhinged sound that echoes in the silence of the room. I lean back against the mountain of pillows, staring up at the coffered ceiling.

This is my life now. Apparently.