Page 48 of Charmingly Obsessed

B efore heading to our lunch at Guy Savoy, I take care of some… off-the-books business. On the other side of the river.

There’s an exclusive members-only club in Paris, a Soho House outpost, and I’m willing to bet it’s where I’ll find the elusive Vesuvius.

My brilliant, beautiful, and occasionally naive wife thinks I’m doing absolutely nothing to prepare for our upcoming, high-stakes meeting with Royce.

She simply doesn’t know that all it really takes to get any invitation I need, to open any door I want, is to track down the legendary art world fixer and information broker, the Collector , Vesuvius Rodin. Well, that, and a quick, discreet call to my Centurion card’s dedicated concierge service.

But Vesuvius, with his network of spies and his encyclopedic knowledge of secrets, has more real, tangible influence than the entire bank.

“Oh, it’s a girl!” I exclaim with genuine delight when Nyogo, the perpetually cheerful, and surprisingly well-informed, head doorman at Soho House, proudly shows me pictures of his newborn daughter on his phone. “Look at you! Now you’ve got three queens in one family!”

“One of them is definitely the queen of troublemakers, Monsieur Mykola,” he groans, adjusting the collar of his ever-present, impeccably tailored doorman’s coat. “She has her mother’s lungs. So, when will we see you join our humble, sleep-deprived ranks?”

“You’ve already heard the news, my friend,” I pat his broad shoulder. “Oh, the ‘work’ is in full swing, believe me. We’re hoping to produce a playmate for your little princess. Lock in that best-friend contract early… maybe even a marriage contract down the line.”

“You must introduce me to your lady, Monsieur!” he calls after me as I cross the busy, cobblestoned street diagonally, dodging a swarm of angry-looking Vespas.

“Consider it done, Nyogo! We’re in town for two weeks! We’ll be back!”

I keep a close, almost obsessive eye on the numbers on my phone’s lock screen – the time. I don’t particularly want to be late for my meeting with Diana back at the hotel. She’s never late. For anything. I swear, punctuality is hard-coded into her DNA.

But I’ll probably be late anyway.

Because I make a quick, impulsive stop at a charming, old-world children’s bookstore I happen to pass.

There’s a particular series of intricate, beautifully illustrated coloring books an eccentric art collector I know raved to me about for half an evening during a communal, and very boozy, dinner in Fiji.

A total exclusive. Limited edition. Diana will love it.

If being a husband is a full-time job, then sign me up as a goddamn careerist. I’m aiming for Employee of the Fucking Century.

Vesuvius, it turns out, has apparently grown too good for Soho House now. So typical of him. Fine. There’s a decent chance I’ll run into the slippery bastard at the art gala instead. I’ll corner him there.

I race back to the hotel, leaving Hugo, my Parisian driver, and the car behind. It’s faster on foot at this hour, through the tangled, congested streets of the city.

I don’t wait for her at the hotel’s ridiculously chic, and notoriously overpriced, bar. I stroll deeper into the opulent, cavernous lobby instead. Hoping to… intercept her. By the main elevator bank.

But she’s already coming down the grand, sweeping marble staircase. And that pushy, overly familiar, blonde American guest relations manager, Kelly, is talking to her. Again. Diana’s shoulders are set in a straight, rigid line. Her smile is polite, but tight.

I wait, lingering in a shadowed alcove, until that American woman finally, reluctantly, leaves.

I watch as Diana turns, heading towards the lobby bar, towards me.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I say, stepping out of the shadows, my voice a low, teasing purr, deliberately startling her. “What’s your name? Does your already impressive wardrobe, perhaps, require a new drawer? A woman with your style must be fighting for closet space. I happen to have an empty half.”

She’s walking ahead of me, carrying a serious-looking leather tote bag. She’s dressed in a chic, tailored blazer, her hair pulled back into an old-fashioned, endearingly playful ponytail that bounces with every step.

Her public face is flawless, as always. Composed. Elegant. Unreadable.

I start walking backward in front of her, matching her steps, doing my best to charm, to cajole, to win her over. Again.

“My husband is a very jealous man,” she says, her voice curt, her gaze fixed straight ahead, as she shifts the heavy bag to her other hand.

I circle around to her other side, falling into step beside her. “Not an idiot, then, your husband. But I’ll be more jealous. And,” I add, leaning in closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I run much faster.”

“My husband,” she says, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of amusement in her voice, “runs very, very fast.”

“Well, obviously,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her ear. “He had to catch the sun itself, didn’t he?”

Her little game, her carefully constructed wall of cool composure, finally falters. She smiles. A small, shy, almost secret smile, glancing to the side, her cheeks flushing a delicate, beautiful pink.

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. I’m going to chew through my own goddamn face at this rate.

“So, gorgeous,” I press my advantage, my voice a low, seductive drawl. “Will you have mercy on a poor, suffering, love-struck man?”

“I can’t,” she replies, her voice still soft, but with a new, almost playful note of apology in it, as she throws a quick, sparkling glance my way. “I’m a married woman now.”

To hell with it all.

“We’ll dirty the dishes together,” I whisper loudly, leaning in so close my lips brush against her temple, “but I’ll do all the washing up. And I… And I’m going to keep my tongue on you until you’re begging me to stop… and then I’m going to keep going. I have… excellent stamina.”

She nearly trips, a startled, breathless laugh escaping her. She tugs at her ponytail in a gesture of pure embarrassment.

I smile against her lips as I pull her, not towards the bar, but into a small, dark, and blessedly empty service room I happen to know is just off the main lobby. Perfect. Dark and empty. I haven’t been this lucky since… well, since Diana Bilova finally, miraculously, agreed to marry me.

I distract her from the initial shock of being manhandled into a glorified broom closet the only way I know how.

However it comes out. Raw. Desperate. Needy.

The moment I let myself actually process the thought that I’m inside her, standing up, pressed against a cold, hard wall, right here, right now, in the middle of the fucking hotel…

my carefully cultivated status as a smooth, sophisticated seducer becomes a goddamn joke.

I finish inside her like a panting, overeager dog.

Might as well start whimpering next. Pathetic.

And she… she kisses me so desperately, so fiercely, as if we really are pressed for time, as if this dusty, cramped, forgotten little room is all we have, all we’ll ever have.

“Everyone probably saw us come in here,” she murmurs later, her face pale, her voice shaky, as she adjusts her ridiculously chic, now slightly rumpled, tailed blazer. Like a small, ruffled bird, trying to smooth down its feathers after a storm.

“Yeah,” I whisper in her ear, my hands still tangled in her hair, my body still thrumming with the aftershocks. “Now they’ll all know just how much I fucking crave my own wife.” The words, the truth of them, make her shudder in my arms.

We leave Guy Savoy hours later, on a high, having tried everything on the ridiculously expensive, multi-course tasting menu.

And now, we’re greedily, enthusiastically planning similar raids on all the other three-star, and even a few two-star, Michelin-rated restaurants in the city.

Our tastes, it turns out, in gourmet food, as in…

other things… align perfectly. We have a simple, shared philosophy: try everything once. Or twice.

Back at the hotel, I make a brief, necessary detour to see the general manager.

Because I’ve reached that grim, unfortunate moment in my life where I have to, metaphorically at least, say the words I despise most: “Call your boss.” I hate throwing my weight around like this, hate pulling the billionaire card.

But my wife, my beautiful, brilliant, and still far too insecure wife, is going to be comfortable here.

She is going to be treated with the respect she deserves.

And that’s the only possible ending to this particular story.

Let the GM figure out what the hell is going on with that bitchy, meddling, American guest relations manager, Kelly. And fix it. Permanently.

Already back in our suite, my gaze, as always, lands on the small, cluttered desk in the corner of the bedroom. And on the neat, professional-looking stack of papers she’s left there.

The top document, a single, crisp sheet of high-quality bond paper, turns red before my eyes.

A prenuptial agreement.

Of course. Fucking of course.

She’s printed it out. Marked it up in her neat, precise pencil handwriting. Added clauses. Struck out others.

Okay. Okay. We didn’t have a real wedding. We didn’t have a proper courtship. The rings are melted-down, repurposed gold from something else entirely, for all I know.

But I am not, under any circumstances, signing a goddamn prenup.

I am not reducing my marriage – least of all my marriage to Diana – to a cold, clinical, soulless piece of paper.

I already have enough fucking paperwork in my life to build a goddamn coffin out of. Hell, an entire family crypt.

Her new, encrypted phone, the one my security team provided, pings softly from the desk.

A message from Amanda.

I glance briefly at a small, charming still-life painting of a single, perfect slice of watermelon hanging on the wall opposite the desk, then back at the offending stack of legal documents.

Amanda is, apparently, offering her some… helpful filters. Suggesting various ways to restructure my chaotic, overwhelming, and frankly, unmanageable personal email inbox.

I rap my knuckles against the fine, polished wood of the desk.

I guess I will need to have a talk with Amanda.

At least the genius, beautiful, infuriating author of this goddamn prenup isn’t here right now. She went… somewhere. To take a bath, I think. Gives me a minute to cool off. To formulate a strategy.

Her phone screen is still open, illuminated.

A strange, cryptic list in her notes app. She’s counting days. Down from ninety. Today is day eighty-seven. Each preceding day is crossed off with a neat, precise line.

Maybe it’s her period. Or ovulation. But someone as obsessively organized as Diana probably has a whole separate, color-coded app for tracking that kind of thing.

But… I don’t believe this is something ordinary. I know she’s hiding something from me, something way more than her breasts with pointy puffy nipples.

I need water. Cold water. Now.

I don’t even get the chance to close the en-suite bathroom door behind me.

She makes a sound. Quiet, but inhuman. Eerie. A soft, sharp, indrawn breath of pure shock.

Diana is frozen near the steam-covered glass wall of the enormous, walk-in shower.

Standing stark still against the cool, white marble. Her hands are raised, gathering up her long, damp hair with a simple black clip.

She’s completely, gloriously, devastatingly naked.

I know I should move. Step back. Close the door. At the very least, turn my fucking head away. Give her some privacy. Some dignity.

I really do try. I swear to God, I do.

But right now… right now, all I can do is stand here. And stare. My heart is beating out of my chest.

Utterly, completely, irrevocably captivated.