Page 38 of Charmingly Obsessed

“Well.” Serafima Pylypivna adjusts her enormous glasses, peering at me over the jeweled rims, a small, enigmatic smile playing on her lips.

“Since I was not physically present at said ceremony, there is, of course, no verifiable proof that it actually happened, is there, my dear?” Her smile widens.

“And Hippolyt, you know, gets a rather serious salary review every six months. He works with numbers too, just like your… Kolya.” She frowns slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

Then she straightens her already ramrod-straight spine.

“But in a much more human field. He works in real estate. Very down-to-earth. Very stable.”

“So… I have a husband now. That’s… a fact.”

“A husband!” She snorts. “And what, pray tell, does a husband have to do with anything, Diana Bilova? Husbands are a relic of the past, my dear. An outdated institution. Especially for a woman like you. A husband, in your particular case, is positively contraindicated. We are looking for – and we will find – you a suitable lover. And what a magnificent name! Hippolyt! So strong! So… virile!”

I can only hope that our lovely, bicycle-riding neighbor, Nadya from Apartment 15, is actively, aggressively looking for a groom. Maybe, just maybe, I can redirect Serafima Pylypivna’s formidable, matchmaking efforts into a more… productive, and less personally terrifying, direction.

When the liveried courier arrives later that evening, bearing an enormous, almost obscenely ostentatious bouquet of flawless, long-stemmed white roses, I’m genuinely surprised.

Frez had given me that single, perfect, uniquely beautiful pink tulip, before the… fight. And this… this veritable flower bed of pristine, almost sterile white roses isn’t exactly… us. Or him. Or me. It feels… impersonal. Generic.

Along with the flowers, there’s a small, clumsy-looking, plainly wrapped package.

I eagerly tear open the heavy, cream-colored envelope accompanying the bouquet, my fingers trembling slightly. I know Mykola. He must have come up with something amusing, something witty, something… him, to write.

It’s such a shame he won’t be here tonight for Serafima’s New Year’s Eve party. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow, until Paris, to… to be with him again.

My hands, I’ve always prided myself, almost never tremble. It’s just how my body works. My nervous system. When I experience shock, or distress, or extreme emotion, I freeze up. Go numb. As if my blood has turned to ice, and I physically lose the ability to move, to react.

But as I unfold the stiff, expensive cardstock, as my eyes scan the elegant, unfamiliar calligraphy, my hands start to shake. Violently.

“My sincere congratulations on your acquisition, durepa. Couldn’t have picked a better, or more appropriate, gift. Tell your new husband. Tell your drunkard. Everything. Will he protect you now? For better, or for worse? Or will he just break and destroy you?”

My actions are slow and deliberate, driven by a stubborn fury. I crumple the card, smooth it flat, and then methodically tear it into unrecognizable shreds, destroying every hateful word.

Drunkard?

Mykola… drinks? Excessively? That… that unfortunate incident at the Greek hotel a few years ago, the one that got him blacklisted from Arman Resorts worldwide, was blamed on his drunken, boorish behavior. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he has an… an addiction. Does it?

I unwrap the clumsy package, my fingers fumbling with the cheap brown paper, eager to get this… this bad feeling, this sudden, sickening premonition, over with.

It’s some kind of fabric. Soft. Worn. Something… familiar. I’ve seen it before… I’ve touched it before…

A scream pushes its way out of my throat.

I try to stop it, to swallow it back down, but it forces its way past my clenched teeth, past my palm clamped hard over my mouth.

The dress. Anya’s favorite dress. The soft, faded blue cotton sundress she was wearing…

The dress she wore when she climbed onto that rickety wooden chair in our shared bedroom.

The dress she was wearing when they… when they took her down.

Serafima Pylypivna is suddenly there, her strong arms around me, her voice a low, soothing murmur in my ear.

She strokes my hair, trying to examine the crumpled blue fabric clutched in my shaking hands.

Any moment now, I’ll make myself move. Any second now, I’ll snap out of this.

“Oh, my poor, precious little rose,” she murmurs, her voice laced with a pain that mirrors my own. “All stiff and broken, like a discarded papier-maché doll.” She tries to guide me towards a nearby chair, but I won’t budge. I can’t.

Any second now, I’ll move. I will.

I’m a lovesick, naive, pathetic fool. I forgot everything.

I lost my goddamn mind. I never should have involved him in the apartment situation with Kozar’s thugs.

I never should have spoken to him at all after that first disastrous meeting.

And yet… and yet, I married him! I willingly walked into this gilded, terrifying cage.

“All right, my darling, all right.”

She gently pries the crumpled blue dress from my numb fingers. She puts on another pair of her enormous, jewel-encrusted glasses and grips her sleek, modern smartphone, her thumb hovering over the call button.

“I’m calling that… that… what’s his name again? Your husband. Aha, that Kolya Frez.”

But I grab her hands, my own surprisingly strong.

“No!” I gasp, the words tumbling out in a rush, faster than I’ve ever spoken in my entire life.

“No, Serafima Pylypivna, please, no! I beg you, don’t tell him!

Don’t call him! It’s… it’s a misunderstanding!

A mistake! I got confused! I mixed things up! It’s not what it looks like!”

I don’t even notice when she stands up, towering over me, her presence suddenly formidable, almost regal.

Her old but surprisingly strong hands cup my face, tilting it upwards, forcing me to look into her dark blue, almost black eyes.

Shadows flicker in their depths, scattering in different directions – maybe just reflections of the flashing neon car headlights from the busy street outside, slicing through the courtyard.

Serafima Pylypivna studies me, her gaze intense. Like a queen judging the guilt or innocence, the loyalty or treachery, of a kneeling, supplicant subject.

Then, her gaze softens slightly. Takes on its usual wry, knowing amusement.

“All right, little rose,” she says finally, gently guiding me towards the chair, finally succeeding in making me sit. “We all get confused sometimes, my dear. Especially when matters of the heart… and other, less mentionable organs… are involved.”

With a heavy, weary sigh, she pours me a generous dose of Corvalol – a potent, old-fashioned Ukrainian heart medication that smells like Valerian root. And then, she pours one for herself.

Then, she makes me clink glasses with her. A silent, solemn toast. To what, I have no idea. Survival, perhaps.

Of course, I won’t tell Mykola anything about this now. Not a word. Kozar, or whoever sent this monstrous, cruel “gift,” understands everything. He knows how to wound. How to terrify.

But what Kozar, and his shadowy associates like Malasenco, don’t understand… what they can’t possibly comprehend…

…is that I love Mykola Frez. With a fierceness, a desperation, a totality that scares the absolute hell out of me.

If they’re setting up a blackmail, if they think they can use me, use Anya, to hurt him, to control him…

they’re in for a very nasty surprise. Pain is inevitable in this game.

I know that now. But I’ll minimize the damage for Frez.

I’ll protect him. Whatever it takes. Their twisted plan, whatever it is, won’t work. Not if I can help it.

I can expect anything from them now. Anything. And this dress… Anya’s dress…

It looks like a warning.

A threat.