Page 5 of Charmingly Obsessed

“Let’s clear this up,” he says, his tone suddenly sharp, strained, like he’s forcing himself through immense resistance.

“Right now. So there isn’t a shadow of a misunderstanding.

Not a hint . There was nothing— nothing —remotely funny about me kissing you that night in the kitchen.

Not the slightest thing, Diana.” His voice cracks on my name.

“That was the furthest goddamn thing from a joke. It’s…

absurd. What joke? I know how pathetic this sounds, but I kissed you because I couldn’t stop myself. ”

Not… a joke? Anger flares, a weak shield against the sudden, disorienting hurt.

“Everyone laughed !” I snap, the word exploding out of me, louder than I intended. “The whole kitchen laughed at me ! Ian even high-fived you! They were cheering! And now you’re telling me it wasn’t a joke?”

“ What are you saying?” He looks physically ill. Good. Let him feel sick.

Three years ago I stood there, frozen, humiliated, watching them celebrate my mortification.

I try to turn away, to escape past and present, but he grabs my shoulder, his fingers digging in, halting me.

“They weren’t laughing at you! They were laughing… at me! At the sheer audacity! Some of them didn’t even process what happened! Albina came right over to you! They couldn’t believe anyone would be that idiotic—that I would be!”

The pieces slam into place, rearranging the narrative I’ve held onto for three years. It feels like the ground is tilting beneath my feet. If… if it wasn’t a joke, not a bet, not a prank… then why ?

“That’s not how it looked,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Not at all. Besides… everyone knows you love jokes, pranks. Why… why did you kiss me then?”

“Albina came to you. And then she dragged me aside. You saw that. You had to see it. She filed an official complaint against me, forbade me from approaching you.”

“A complaint?” I echo, stunned. “I never filed any complaint!”

“I know ,” Frez grits out, frustration tightening his jaw. “But you should have, Diana. I abused my position. I can only imagine how… physically unwelcome… it must have been. How unacceptable.”

Unwelcome? Physically unwelcome? I nearly melted when his mouth claimed mine. I didn’t exactly participate in that kiss like a normal person, paralyzed by shock and years of repression, but my body responded. Heat, need, a terrifying jolt of connection.

“You own the company! What complaint? And don’t tell me you ignored me for three years just because Albina ‘forbade’ you!

” The words are out before I can stop them, revealing too much.

That I noticed his absence. That I waited.

That I expected… something. If Mykola Frez wants something, he gets it.

HR complaints are gnats to be swatted away.

I take a shaky step back, overwhelmed, but his grip on my shoulder tightens, pulling me closer instead.

His face is inches from mine, his breath warm against my skin.

“I didn’t ignore you, Diana,” he breathes, his voice thick with emotion. “I tried. God, I tried. But I can’t even forbid myself . Look at today. Look what I did.”

My face burns under his intense scrutiny. The raw emotion rolling off him is suffocating. Without thinking, my free hand comes up, clutching the sleeve of his linen shirt, fingers curling into the fabric covering the hard muscle of his arm. Anchoring myself.

“Are you saying,” I struggle, the words feeling monumental, like pushing boulders uphill, “that when you kissed me… it wasn’t a joke? Not for them? How… why did it happen?”

“Because only a complete fucking idiot would do that,” Frez says, his voice rising, fierce and ragged. “And it turns out… I am that idiot.”

Silence falls, heavy and crushing.

I stare at him, trying to reconcile this new reality with the old one. His fingers are still clamped on my shoulder, but his thumb begins a slow, almost absentminded stroke near my collarbone, sending sparks across my skin.

“I… I…”

“Are you telling me,” he cuts in, his voice laced with raw, angry disbelief, “that for three years —three goddamn years!—you thought I was joking ? That that kiss was a joke ?!”

Normally, anger sends me retreating deep into my shell. But now, I’m too stunned, too disoriented. I just stare, really seeing him. The pain in his eyes, the frustration, the sheer exhaustion warring with fierce intensity. And everything I see screams that he’s telling the truth. It wasn’t a joke.

“Don’t yell,” I whisper reflexively. Stupid.

“I’m trying to understand how you could possibly think… You thought… I would never do that to a woman! Humiliate her like that!”

How convenient for him to forget the other humiliation. The one that happened just an hour before the kiss, where he publicly shredded my work and my confidence, leaving me reeling while others offered sympathetic murmurs. But dredging that up now feels pointless. He’s right. It’s been three years.

“Don’t try to understand, Frez,” I shake my head, a weary resignation settling over me. “Let it go. Please. I’m glad… we cleared this up. I have a long day tomorrow. I need to go.”

“We haven’t cleared up a damn thing!” he laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “You’re like… a locked room I desperately need the key to. Come back to the company. Come back .”

The weight of everything – the chase, the confrontation, the lies, the truth, Anya – becomes unbearable.

Silence hasn’t served me. Maybe the truth will. I brace myself for his inevitable ‘fix-it’ reaction.

“Mykola,” I sigh, meeting his eyes directly. “I have problems. Real ones. My sister… Anya… she died. Three days ago. I can’t work right now. I just… can’t. I’m sorry.”

His reaction is instantaneous, visceral. A strangled sound escapes him.

He grabs my other shoulder, pulling me abruptly against his hard chest. His arms wrap around me, tight, possessive.

“What problems? I knew it. I knew something was wrong.” His frantic gaze searches my face, frantic, desperate.

“We’ll fix it. Whatever it is, I will fix it. You can count on me. Just tell me.”

His embrace is overwhelming, solid and warm.

And despite knowing his savior complex is legendary, despite the chilling possibility that his world intersects with the very people who destroyed Anya…

a tiny, treacherous seed of warmth takes root in my chest. God, how easy it would be to lean on him, to let him try. If only…

“No,” I say sharply, pushing against his chest, forcing myself out of his hold. The loss of contact is chilling. “Listen to me. No. I told you, I have a plan. It’s too late. Thank you for the offer. For… caring.”

He starts pacing again, a tight, agitated back-and-forth in the small space between us, his movements sharp, jerky. Avoiding my eyes. His mind is working furiously, calculating, strategizing. His refusal to give up is almost admirable.

“‘No’ isn’t an option,” he snaps, turning back to face me.

“It’s already done. I’m not lying. There’s very little that can be changed now.”

“Tell me your plan,” he demands, enunciating each word with clipped precision. It’s almost funny – the billionaire demanding intel from designer like a general.

But nothing about this is funny. Not when my stupid, traitorous heart still wants things it can’t have. Wants him to follow me upstairs. Wants him to reach for me again.

“Goodbye, Mykola,” I whisper, the word heavy with finality.

“I never asked for your forgiveness,” he says suddenly, his voice raw. “For what happened. With your hand. I’m asking now. Diana, there hasn’t been a second I haven’t regretted it. Wished I could take it back.”

“You already apologized,” I murmur, glancing down instinctively at my hidden hand. “Back then. When the ambulance came. I’ve forgotten it.” A lie. “Everyone has bad days.”

“Then I’m apologizing again, because I don’t remember.”

“You did,” I confirm quietly. “You were… upset.”

His handsome face contorts, muscles spasming under the skin, twisting into an expression of such raw agony that I instinctively take a step back.

The phantom ache in my palm flares, a cruel reminder.

“It’s okay,” I force out, the words feeling hollow. “All of this was a long time ago.”

His expressive eyes turn unreadable, flat, like shutters have slammed down.

He looks at me like I’m… an equation he can’t solve.

A source of unending complication. People hate being reminded of their own cruelty .

My very existence is a testament to his momentary loss of control.

But I never blamed him for the physical pain, not really. It was an accident born of chaos.

I try to offer a small, forgiving smile. He has a whole life waiting – jets, yachts, deals. Lots of friends and laughter. We’re oil and water. A sewing magazine and a financial genius. A joke. A misunderstanding.

I want to reach out, brush my lips against his cheek in a final, foolish gesture of goodbye. But courage fails me.

“It was… interesting meeting you, Kolya,” I begin, aiming for composed, but my voice wobbles betrayingly.

While everyone else in the office used his nickname, I always adhered to the chain of command. But today, believing this is the last time I’ll ever see him, I use the more personal form of his name for the very first time.

He remains frozen, studying me with that calculating, unyielding intensity.

Then, he tilts his head slightly, a subtle shift. And Mykola Frez speaks, transforming this shabby, pothole-ridden courtyard into his own private universe, bending reality with sheer force of will.

“Kiss me.” The command is low, guttural. “Short. Right now. If you can keep it short… you can leave.”

My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of shock, fear, and impossible desire. Logic evaporates. Reason flees.

“I’m ordering you,” he grits out, and the terrifying thing is, maybe he can . Maybe he holds some invisible leash tied directly to my pulse.

Because I move. One step closer. Then another. Until barely a breath separates us.

My hand trembles as I lift it to his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly rough with stubble. I lean in, pressing a brief, chaste kiss there. His breath hitches, hot and uneven against my ear, whispering wordless promises or threats straight into my soul.

Then, I shift… and touch my lips to his.

He doesn’t spare me for a second.

His reaction is immediate, explosive. He surges forward, closing the minuscule distance, his mouth crashing down on mine.

It’s not gentle. It’s possession. His hands are suddenly in my hair, tilting my head back, angling my mouth for his invasion.

His other arm snakes around my waist, hauling me flush against his hard body.

This isn’t the hesitant exploration I initiated.

This is pure Frez – demanding, consuming, relentless.

His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and he kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s trying to devour me whole, brand me as his.

Restless fingers stroke my face, trace my jawline, then tangle back in my hair, holding me captive.

He deepens the kiss, sucking lightly on my lower lip, then plunging back in, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

It’s madness. He loops us in circles of intensity – gentle nips followed by bruising pressure, slow exploration giving way to frantic claiming. As if he’s decided that if his sanity is lost, we’ll lose it together.

My hand lifts, tracing the hard line of his jaw, and a soft moan escapes me, betraying my body’s unwilling surrender. He responds instantly, cupping my face with both hands, sealing our mouths together, kissing me deeper, slower now, but with an inescapable intensity. He wants fusion. Annihilation.

When he finally, finally breaks the kiss, his breathing is ragged, his eyes blazing down at me, pupils dilated, dark with possessive fire.

His thumbs brush over my kiss-swollen lips, a shockingly intimate gesture that sends another jolt straight to my core.

I stare up at him, dazed, breathless. A man possessed.

“I have a plan too. It’ll be ready soon. You’ll find out tomorrow.”

And then he turns, strides back to the monstrous SUV, yanks the door open, and climbs in, his movements jagged, furious. The engine roars to life.

He doesn’t look back.

I remain frozen on the cracked pavement, the echo of his kiss burning on my lips, the weight of his promise – or threat – settling over me like a shroud. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Trapped in the altered universe Mykola Frez just created.