Page 4 of Charmingly Obsessed

“ W hat an absolute nutcase!” The taxi driver glances nervously in his rearview mirror, his hawk-like features tight with adrenaline. The massive black SUV is glued to our tail. “Seriously, who is that guy? Swear I’ve seen his face… Not some celebrity psycho, is he?”

I shake my head mutely before realizing he can’t see me. “No. He’s… an investor. Well-known. Mykola Frez. Heir to the Korshunov fortune.”

“Ah.” The driver’s lips purse in distaste. “ That kind of rich asshole. Got it.”

For the next ten minutes, it’s a high-stakes game of cat and mouse through downtown traffic. Frez’s SUV repeatedly surges forward, pulling alongside us with terrifying speed. He cuts people off, ignores lights, drives like he owns the damn city – which, financially speaking, he probably does.

My driver, a stubborn old pro, refuses to yield, cursing under his breath as he takes a sharp, unexpected turn.

A sensible person would tell him to pull over. To face Frez and end this madness. But a stupid, traitorous part of me, a part that still hums with the memory of his behavior in my office, feels a perverse thrill.

He’s chasing me.

“And there he goes!” my driver suddenly exclaims, a note of triumph in his voice. “Told ya he’d give up! Psycho couldn’t keep up.”

I twist in my seat, nausea churning in my stomach as I watch the SUV execute an abrupt, aggressive U-turn mid-block, tires squealing, before speeding off in the opposite direction. Gone.

Relief floods me, so potent it makes me dizzy. It’s followed by a sharp, confusing pang of disappointment.

No. This is good, I tell myself firmly. He’s gone. You’re safe.

Except… I’d almost convinced myself I needed to talk to him again. Not that our earlier encounter qualified as a conversation. More like a hostage negotiation interrupted by… whatever that was.

A bitter taste floods my mouth. Clinging to crumbs of contact with him like a starving woman. Pathetic.

The truth is, after that day three years ago, Frez and I never really spoke again. Not beyond clipped professional necessities.

My feelings for him settled into a strange, dormant state.

Calming, almost, in their utter hopelessness.

Frez would never look at me twice, not that way.

He has legions of women throwing themselves at him – supermodels and heiresses.

All vying for the ultimate prize: the brilliant, obscenely wealthy, devastatingly handsome Mykola Frez.

The tabloids practically run betting pools on who will finally land him.

Maybe he doesn’t want anyone. He has everything else.

And even if, by some cosmic fluke, he did find me attractive… it’s laughable. We’re fundamentally incompatible. He’d be bored or frustrated within days. I’m… broken. Too shy, too scarred, too tangled up in my own anxieties to navigate the complexities of a real relationship

The taxi eventually turns into the familiar, pothole-ridden courtyard of my apartment building. My heart, which had just started to slow, plummets.

Waiting there, headlights cutting through the twilight, is the black SUV.

“Well, damn,” the driver mutters, pulling to a stop. “Guess the psycho won.”

Frez kills the engine. The sudden silence is deafening. Frez unfolds his long frame from the driver’s seat and starts toward us, moving with a predatory grace that makes my breath catch.

“You sure you’re okay, lady?” the driver asks.

“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a reassuring smile. “He’s… technically my boss. He’s harmless. Really. Thank you so much for everything.”

“If you say so.”

I step out onto the cracked pavement just as Frez reaches me. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, a failed attempt to look casual. The coiled energy vibrating off him is anything but.

“I’m just trying to understand,” he finally says, breaking the unbearable silence. His voice is low, rougher than usual. “Trying to understand why you’re leaving, Diana. Why you lied .”

Always trying to understand. Always analyzing.

But this isn’t about logic. This is about his ego.

How dare I walk away when the great Mykola Frez asked me – no, told me – to stay?

The irony is thick enough to choke on. If he only knew…

in some other reality, I’d dissolve into a puddle at his feet without a second thought.

I take a deep, steadying breath. “ Mr. Frez…”

He blinks, glancing around in exaggerated confusion, even turning slightly to look behind him.

“W-what?” I stammer, thrown off balance.

“Looking for this Mr. Frez fellow,” he says, his brow furrowed in mock seriousness. He points towards the taxi’s front wheel. “Is that him? Hiding behind the tire?”

From behind the chalk-streaked rubber, a fat, iridescent pigeon peeks out, puffing its chest importantly. It cocks its head, observing us with beady eyes, then waddles with immense dignity towards a discarded plastic bag near the patchy grass.

I look back at Frez. And despite everything – the chase, the fear, the raw tension – I see it. A flicker of genuine, weary amusement in his turbulent blue eyes.

Against my will, the corner of my mouth lifts. Then the other. A tiny, hesitant smile.

His reaction is instantaneous. His gaze sharpens, locks onto my mouth.

He goes utterly still. “She’s smiling,” he whispers, the words barely audible, laced with a strange, intense wonder.

Then, lower, almost a hum, a thread of quiet exhilaration weaving through the exhaustion, “She’s smiling… and I’m… flying…”

Sounds like lyrics from some song. One I don’t know.

The moment breaks. I clear my throat, forcing myself back to reality. “Mykola, I assure you, David isn’t just suitable candidate. He’s far more experienced, more motivated—”

“Stop. This isn’t about David. You’re the specialist I need. That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is ?”

“You could both work here, Diana. There’s room.”

“I… I can’t work here anymore.”

“What happened?” he presses, his voice softening slightly, but his eyes remain fiercely insistent. He waits, giving me space, a rare display of patience.

“It’s… complicated. A combination of factors.”

“Then uncomplicate it for me,” he counters immediately. “One by one. If there’s a problem, we find a solution. That’s what I do.”

“Why?” The question escapes me in a whisper. I clutch my bag tighter, my fingers finding the worn fringe on the pocket, twisting it. “Why do you even care?”

“Why shouldn’t I care when one of my best employees walks out? This is my personal family office. Not some faceless subsidiary.”

“If there was a way, I would stay,” I murmur, looking down. “It’s just… a long story.”

His eyes flicker, scanning my face, restless, unsettled.

He tilts his head, his gaze drifting up towards the dark windows of my apartment building.

“Is someone… waiting for you there?” he asks quietly.

As if he could somehow divine the answer from the blank panes of glass.

As if he could see the ghost hanging in my living room.

The image flashes, sharp and brutal: the antique wardrobe, the rope, the faint sway in the draft from the window I left open three days ago and haven’t had the strength to close.

That’s what’s waiting for me. A nightmare made tangible. Someone will have to take the rope down eventually. Just not me.

I straighten my shoulders, pushing the image away. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I say, forcing firmness into my voice. “But I have a plan. I need to stick to it. This wasn’t easy for me either.”

Frez slowly lifts his head, his gaze sweeping over my face, intense, as if committing every feature to memory. The stillness is unnerving, the depths of his blue eyes like swirling galaxies. My bag strap digs into my shoulder. How do I survive the next five minutes?

“Did you lie to me back there because you intended to leave all along? Or did you change your mind… after I tried to kiss you again?”

Again. The word hangs in the air, distorting reality. Tried to kiss me again ? Back in the office today? He wanted to? Why? What is this? Some cruel, elaborate joke?

My brain scrambles. It can’t be about my looks. I’m plain, not repulsive. Is it because I’m awkward? Uptight? Obviously inexperienced? Yes, let’s analyze this for the five hundredth time.

“I intended to leave all along. I wasn’t honest. I didn’t want to… upset you.”

“Disappointed, upset…” He takes an involuntary step closer, crowding me. My breath catches. “We need to figure out what it takes for you to stay,” he insists, the command back in his voice. “Salary, benefits, time off – two weeks, starting tomorrow? Everything is negotiable.”

A choked laugh escapes me. Bitter, humorless.

I immediately regret it; it sounds dismissive.

But his relentless persistence, his utter refusal to accept reality, is absurd.

Maybe… maybe he feels guilty? About that day three days ago ?

Maybe his perfect image requires absolution, and he assumed I’d be eternally grateful, eternally silent. Well, I mostly was.

“No,” I say firmly. “It’s decided. It’s done. And this has nothing to do with… jokes.”

“Jokes?” He repeats the word slowly, carefully, like tasting something foreign and unpleasant.

“Yes,” I echo. “Jokes about the… kisses. This isn’t about that.”

“ Jokes? What the hell are you talking about, Diana?”

“I don’t want to remember any of it. Just consider it—”

“ Jokes? ” he breathes, the word thick with incredulity and something else… something raw. “Kisses?” His gaze sweeps over me erratically.