Page 51 of Charmingly Obsessed

T he next morning, after another, equally spectacular, and slightly less… coerced… round of marital negotiations, and a truly decadent room service breakfast, I feel a strange, unfamiliar surge of energy.

Honestly, it’s like I’ve stopped constantly looking over my shoulder, stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. Though, to be fair, I never actually, physically, did that. It was all internal.

Mykola scratches his shoulder absently when he gets lost in thought.

He’s doing it now, staring intently at the financial news channel on the television. The news this morning mentioned the abrupt, and apparently scandalous, firing of the CEO from some major American tech conglomerate.

And for a good fifteen minutes, Frez has been debating, out loud, with himself, about whether to look into it further. Whether there’s an opportunity there. An angle.

Then, right in the middle of breakfast, his croissant halfway to his mouth, he starts making calls.

To his brokers. In New York. In London. In Hong Kong.

He makes a few quick, decisive trades. He even, apparently, takes out a massive line of credit for…

something. He looks downright predatory with satisfaction afterward.

But when he turns to me, a faint, almost sheepish smile touches his lips.

“Last time,” he says, his voice a solemn vow.

“I swear. I’m not playing those games anymore. Not really.”

I nod seriously, taking a delicate bite of my raspberry pastry, trying not to get powdered sugar all over me.

After lunch, we dash into the museum, practically like a real, normal, non-billionaire, non-temporary-contractual-marriage tourist couple.

In a few days, we’ll be attending a formal, black-tie gala here, for one of Royce’s pet charities. But there won’t be much time then to actually explore the galleries, to see the art.

Mykola promises me a quiet, private, even romantic evening at the Louvre soon.

After hours. When the magnificent, hallowed halls are empty, and the priceless paintings are left to rest from the prying, unappreciative eyes of the tourist hordes.

Mykola promises me so many things. And the scariest part is, most of them are actually possible.

And, most likely, he’ll make them happen. For me.

That evening, back in our suite, after another, mind-blowingly delicious dinner, and another, equally mind-blowing round of… negotiations… in the shower this time, I finally muster the courage to say what’s been on my mind all day.

The thing that’s been nagging at me, a small, persistent splinter under my skin.

“I’d like to… to move to another hotel, Mykola.” I say it quickly. “It’s not necessary, of course,” I add, backtracking immediately, my courage failing me. “This one is… lovely.”

He’s staring at something on his laptop screen, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He only lifts his head after a long, unnerving moment of silence.

“Don’t think for a second I don’t understand what’s going on here, Diana,” he says, his voice unexpectedly heavy, dark, and deeply, deeply displeased.

“I’m just… genuinely fucking confused about what that stubborn, meddling, blonde American bitch expects to achieve with these pathetic little mind games. ”

Oh. He does understand everything. She must have thrown herself at him before. In the past. Before me. Maybe… maybe Frez even slept with her.

The thought, sharp and unwelcome, sends another jolt, this one of unpleasant, possessive jealousy, through me.

I straighten the stack of art auction catalogs on the enormous, antique desk, and since I’m being so gracious, so understanding, so… mature… I take a piece of the ridiculously expensive, artisanal Swiss chocolate from the crystal swan.

“I shouldn’t have booked this hotel, and everything else, without even discussing it with you first,” he says, rubbing his forehead wearily.

He pushes himself up from the bed on his fists, and I suddenly feel awkward, almost shy, about how incredibly, beautifully muscular he is.

It’s not always so obvious when he’s fully clothed, because of his towering, athletic height.

But now… now, it’s very, very obvious. “My mistake.”

“Cheval Blanc just opened,” he continues, his voice regaining some of its usual decisive energy. “Insane views of the Seine. And the new Samaritaine department store is literally next door. For… shopping.” He gives me a pointed look. “But go ahead. You pick. Whatever you want, Diana. It’s yours.”

Perfect. Because I already did my own research earlier today. And I’ve already made my choice.

“La Réserve?” I venture, my voice a little hesitant. “It’s in a much quieter area. On the Right Bank. Close by, but more discreet. And smaller. Much smaller. Would you be willing to move there?”

“Yeah,” he says, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “La Réserve is great.”

And then, unfortunately, my new, wonderful, almost-perfect husband starts shuffling through the stack of papers on the desk. And pulls out the neatly printed, and extensively annotated, prenuptial agreement.

“The lawyers from the London office… they just sent this over as a standard example,” I explain quickly, my heart sinking. “For my review. I know you’re against it, but—”

“But?” Frez stacks the papers neatly, aligning the edges with a terrifying, almost obsessive precision. Then he slams the pile down hard against the polished wood of the desk with a sharp, explosive thud that makes me jump. “But what, Diana? Hm?”

“They said… they said it could protect me, too,” I rush out. “Legally.”

The lawyers are absolutely right, of course.

A contract makes things clear-cut. Unambiguous.

There’s nothing scandalous, or unromantic, about it.

It’s just… practical. And honestly, it’d be a profound relief not to have those astronomical, life-altering, mind-boggling zeroes hanging over my head like the goddamn sword of Damocles.

“Could,” Mykola repeats, his voice laced with a heavy, mocking sarcasm.

He smirks, a cold, unpleasant expression that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“ Could . Is that all they said, Diana? Or did they also, perhaps, try to divide our hypothetical firstborn child by inches, behind my back, just for billing purposes?”

“Matthew, the senior partner, he said—”

“Matthew would sell his own grandmother’s soul to make his firm’s annual report look good. They’re not on retainer with me, Diana. They work on a fixed, project-based contract. And this kind of thing for them… this is a golden opportunity to rack up billable hours.”

He leans against the desk, then turns my desk chair, with me still in it, to face him directly.

“Obviously, it’s a common practice,” I persist, trying to sound reasonable, logical. “Which means there’s a practical, tangible benefit to it—”

“Uh-huh,” he nods down at me, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, challenging light.

“You read one contract, shoved in your face by some slick, overpaid lawyer, and now you think you’re a goddamn expert on matrimonial law.

Is that it? So, let’s do this properly, then.

You know how it’s properly done, don’t you? ”

“Let’s do it,” I lift my chin defiantly, because his smug, condescending expression is suddenly, unbearably irritating.

“Yeah?” He studies me for a long, unnerving moment, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face as he bites the cap off his expensive, gold-plated fountain pen. “Yeah.”

I have doomed myself to eternal, exquisite suffering.

Because my husband, my temporary, contractual, fake husband, is so devilishly, unfairly handsome, especially when he’s being a smug, arrogant bastard, that it’s completely, utterly impossible to focus on anything he’s actually saying.

“Let’s outline, in excruciating detail exactly how much you get for each year of our blissful, legally-binding marriage.

The longer we manage to stay together without killing each other, naturally, the higher the final lump-sum payment.

We’ll also need to include a detailed breakdown of how much you get per child.

Plus, of course, a selection of prime international real estate.

I want at least two kids, by the way. Maybe three.

So, we should probably specify exactly how many children your beautiful, and clearly very fertile, womb is contractually required to produce for the Frez dynasty.

We’ll also need to set a minimum, non-negotiable frequency for…

marital duties. Weekly quotas, I think. Including, of course, a mandatory anal sex clause.

There has to be a baseline for performance.

Should we? Is that what you’ve planned out in your neat little spreadsheets, Diana? ”

I start to get up, my face flaming, my hands clenched into fists, but Mykola blocks my escape with his long, muscular leg, trapping me in the chair. I turn to him, glaring, and sigh. A long, weary, exasperated sigh.

“You know,” I say, my voice dripping with as much sarcasm as I can muster, “you can be a really, really unbearable asshole sometimes, Mykola.”

“I work very, very hard at it, sunshine.” He grins, a flash of white, perfect teeth against his tanned skin.

“There’s this one particular woman, you see.

She doesn’t seem to appreciate my many and varied efforts in that department.

And I’m… I’m madly, deeply, pathologically obsessed with her.

Like something out of a particularly bloody, and very overwrought, Greek tragedy. ”

I can’t help but smile. A real, genuine, reluctant smile. Though I defy him by turning my head away when he leans in, trying to pull me closer.

“Sometimes,” I murmur, averting my gaze, “I think you don’t really mean everything you say, Mykola.”

He grips my chin, gently but firmly, and forces me to look at him. “If I ever start talking to you completely, one hundred percent seriously, Diana,” he says, his voice a low, intense whisper, “you’ll have me committed . And I don’t think you’d visit me in the asylum. Not even on weekends.”

“Be sure of it,” I retort, a spark of defiance returning. “I’m a very responsible wife. I’d visit. With pastries.” I pause. “If you don’t want a contract, Mykola, then fine. We won’t have one.”

“So,” he says, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face, “you didn’t actually know how it’s properly done, did you, Diana? All that talk about practical benefits and legal protections…”

“Fine!” I throw up my hands in surrender. “I didn’t know! Are you happy now?” He grabs them instantly, his fingers lacing through mine.

“Exactly. Didn’t know. And didn’t bother to ask her long-suffering, and infinitely more knowledgeable, husband first.”

His breath is hot, intoxicating, against my ear. My face is burning even before he murmurs, his voice a suggestive growl that sends shivers chasing down my spine:

“Huh. You know, Diana… I can think of a much more… practical, and mutually beneficial, use for this very sturdy, and conveniently located, antique desk. I’ve always wanted to do it right on top of a legally binding document.

It adds a certain… frisson of corporate ruthlessness to the proceedings, don’t you think? ”