Page 43 of Charmingly Obsessed
H ?tel de la Couronne, a bastion of old-world Parisian opulence, greets us with a hushed, dim elegance.
Very dim. It’s that particular brand of morning laziness perfected by the French, a languid, almost decadent calm before the real excitement begins in the evening.
That’s when they turn on all the glittering chandeliers, presumably for the benefit of the impeccably uniformed staff.
Check-in, naturally, doesn’t happen in the plebeian lobby.
It happens right here, in our sprawling, ridiculously opulent suite, and it involves a small, efficient army of people – the hotel general manager, a guest relations specialist, a private butler, and two very serious-looking men in dark suits who are probably part of Frez’s international security detail.
Judging by the faint, almost imperceptible tightening of Mykola’s jaw, this level of commotion is unusual, even for him.
His belongings, I notice, are already unpacked, his bespoke suits and crisp shirts hanging in a perfect, color-coordinated row in one of the enormous walk-in closets.
Mine, a single, battered suitcase filled with a motley collection of sensible basics and one ridiculously expensive black dress, I’ll handle myself.
Mykola, after a brief, whispered conversation with one of the security guys, needs to step out for a while.
A pre-arranged, off-the-books meeting, I suspect.
Fine by me. I plan to make good use of my time before our own scheduled outing this evening.
We’re heading to a trendy, avant-garde gallery in Le Marais, the Fifth Gallery, where an old acquaintance of mine now works as a junior art consultant.
He’ll be our link, our inside track, to the senior curator at one of the key Parisian art centers Royce is known to frequent. Our Trojan horse.
I quickly put together a short, strategic list of paintings we should aim to publicly acquire over the next few days. For appearance’s sake. Nothing too flashy, nothing too obscure. The kind of solid, respectable acquisitions a serious, established collector would make.
Then I call the auction house, introducing myself as Mrs. Frez – the name still feels strange, foreign, on my tongue – to express my husband’s keen interest in an upcoming, exclusive, invitation-only auction.
Royce doesn’t have it on his official, publicly available schedule yet, but I know, from my own research, from my own deep dive into his collecting habits, that he’ll definitely be invited.
And he won’t decline. It features a rare, early work by an artist he’s been chasing for years.
The auction house, I have to admit, wasn’t exactly thrilled when I first stepped onto the scene as Mykola’s newly appointed, and largely unknown, collection manager a few weeks ago.
But now… now that I’m his wife, their tone is all fawning warmth and cloying courtesy. It’s amazing what a simple gold band and a multi-billion-dollar surname can do.
I went from anonymous art consultant to Mrs. Mykola Frez in three insane, whirlwind days. They’ll probably be talking about it, whispering about it, for the next three years.
I sort through the stack of gilt-edged invitations Mykola’s office has already couriered over, cross-checking them against the ones I, through my own more modest channels, have managed to obtain.
I also, with a growing sense of surreal competence, reschedule and update Mykola’s business calls for the next forty-eight hours, according to the revised agenda I’ve created.
Amanda, his indestructible New York-based assistant, advises me, via a secure, encrypted video call, on which high-stakes meetings are absolutely unavoidable, which can be safely skipped, and which might, with a bit of diplomatic finesse, be postponed.
“Jesus Christ Himself, in all His infinite wisdom and glory, sent you to me, Diana,” she groans dramatically, drumming her perfectly manicured, blood-red fingernails on the polished surface of her enormous desk, the Manhattan skyline glittering behind her.
“No, scratch that. God Himself. I am in freaking heaven. Actual, honest-to-God, less-work-for-me heaven.”
I still need to double-check the after-party invitations for the gallery opening tonight, and then meticulously number my limited selection of clothes for scheduled dry cleaning on specific days – a necessity in this high-stakes, high-fashion world, apparently.
But on my way to the bedroom, my suitcase in tow, I spot a documentary playing on the enormous, wall-mounted television in the suite’s main salon.
Monkeys!
There’s some unusual, obscure nature channel on here, a channel I didn’t even know existed. I’m instantly captivated.
“Who would’ve thought,” a low, husky, ridiculously familiar voice whispers directly into my ear, making me jump, nearly spilling the complimentary plate of artisanal nuts I’d been nibbling on all over the pristine, cream-colored silk bedspread, “that snijynki had such a pronounced and sophisticated love for monkeys?”
Jesus, he snuck up on me like a goddamn cat. A very large, very handsome, very disruptive panther. I didn’t even hear the suite door open, though the master bedroom is a considerable distance from the main entrance.
“Is it that fascinating?” he asks, an amused, teasing note in his voice.
“Not really,” I explain hastily, deciding, for some reason, not to elaborate on my long-standing, slightly obsessive fascination with primates. “But part of this particular expedition… it covers a specific, and very rare, species of macaque. And I… I always watch anything about monkeys.”
He watches the screen intently for a moment as the documentary shifts from the snow-covered mountains of Japan to a steamy, vibrant jungle scene.
“The other segments aren’t just about them, you know,” I add, feeling the need to justify my strange viewing habits.
“They’re about nature in general. Which is also… interesting.”
“Monkeys are easier to understand than people, right?” He glances down at me, his gaze sharp, perceptive, seeing far too much, as always.
“I just… observe them,” I say, a little too defensively. “That’s all. It’s just… a quirk. Where were you?” God, I sound like a nagging, controlling shrew of a wife. After less than few days of marriage. A new record, probably.
Mykola smiles, but it’s not as confident, not as easy, as his usual charming grins. His hand, which has been resting lightly on my shoulder, strokes down my arm, then his touch turns into a kiss.
A deep, uneven, soul-stealing kiss that tastes of cool autumn air and lingering want. We breathe into each other, eyes closed, and I follow his lead, surrendering to the familiar, intoxicating pull.
“I was in the country of Missing You,” he murmurs against my lips, the cheesy, ridiculously romantic line somehow sounding utterly, devastatingly sincere coming from him. It makes me smile, despite myself. “And I have something for you.”
I open the small, elegant, dark blue Boucheron box in a stunned, reverent silence.
Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, a large, pearlescent, irregularly shaped baroque pearl is encased in a delicate, impossibly intricate lattice of the finest white gold chainmail, which glistens with tiny, almost invisible diamond accents at the joints.
It’s an unusual, almost otherworldly piece. A beautiful, perfect, miniature cage for a flawed, imperfect pearl.
“Thank you, Mykola,” I manage, my voice a soft whisper as I turn the exquisite pendant over in my hands, the cool, heavy weight of it a surprising comfort. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”
“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice suddenly, surprisingly, hoarse. “Really?”
I lift my gaze to his. And I have never, ever seen such raw, naked uncertainty on his handsome, usually so-confident face.
If only I could put into words even a fraction of an ounce of the swirling, chaotic, overwhelming emotions simmering inside me right now.
If only I could find a few of the right words, for once in my goddamn life.
“I love it,” I nod, the words feeling small, inadequate, but blessedly, wonderfully true. I do. I love it.
The pendant is exquisite on its own, a masterpiece of craftsmanship. But it’s also… it’s perfectly, unnervingly suited for me.
Despite its obvious opulence, its undeniable value, it’s something I could actually wear every day. It’s not flashy. It’s… unique. Complex. A little bit strange.
“I spotted it… about a year ago,” he says, his voice still hoarse, his gaze fixed on the pendant in my hands.
“When I was picking out… the wedding gift for Kulak.” He clears his throat.
“It would’ve been foolishly, insanely presumptuous of me to actually buy it back then…
but I… I placed a hold on it. And I… I kept renewing the hold. Every month.”
“You couldn’t have. No, you’re making it up,” I shake my head, a disbelieving laugh escaping me, waiting for him to admit he’s joking, that this is just another one of his elaborate, charming exaggerations.
“I couldn’t,” he agrees softly, his eyes finally lifting to meet mine, filled with a raw, almost painful sincerity. “Not without you, Diana. I couldn’t do… anything. Not really. Not at all.”
“Mykola, what are you saying?” I stammer, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs, a wild, impossible hope unfurling in my chest. “A year ago?”
Instead of answering, he brushes my hair aside from my neck and kisses the exact spot where the delicate, white gold chain would rest.
His lips trail upward, hot and seeking, along the sensitive column of my throat. His hands cradle my face, tilting it back. And then he presses me down, gently but inexorably, onto the plush, silken expanse of the enormous bed.
I never knew a quickie, an impromptu, mid-afternoon tumble, could feel like this.
We find each other with our mouths, our hands, frantic, hungry, desperate. And then he’s inside me, thrusting deep, his teeth clenched, a guttural groan rumbling in his chest.