Page 53 of Charmingly Obsessed

T hank fucking God.

He’s coming our way.

If I’d had to call him over, or worse, actually seek him out, Vesuvius Rodin, on sheer principle alone, would have bailed. Disappeared into the Parisian night like a puff of expensive, cigar-scented smoke.

Vesuvius Rodin was what we, in the high-stakes, underground poker games of our misspent youth, used to call a “whale.” A moneyed whale.

The kind of guy always given a prime, front-row seat at the big art auctions because he buys too much, too impulsively. And a red-table, high-roller VIP at the illicit, backroom card games because he loses too much. Too spectacularly.

And he does it all with an enviable, almost infuriating ease. He lives with a casual, almost contemptuous disregard for the obscene amounts of money he both makes and loses.

No one, not even me, quite noticed the exact moment when Vesuvius transformed from a mere, predictable “fish” into the veritable Neptune of international high society.

But I’d bet good money the bastard welcomed that particular, transformative moment with a slow, knowing, devilish smirk.

Vesuvius always arrives everywhere hand in hand with his impenetrable, almost suffocating cynicism.

He might change his ridiculously expensive, custom-tailored Tom Ford tuxedo now and then, but his aura of dark, hopeless, and surprisingly witty nihilism remains unchanged.

He despises Paris, yet plans to live here for as long as he already has – which is to say, fifteen long, miserable, beautiful years.

In other words, we could have been, and probably should have been, good friends.

But Ves already has millions of devoted, loyal, and entirely uncomplicated friends. And every single one of them is neatly, conveniently stacked in his various offshore bank accounts.

Undine and Diana are now deep in a serious, almost academic discussion about a massive, unsettling canvas hanging on the wall next to us.

A looming, shadowy figure of a man on a rooftop, his own enormous, feathered wings seemingly pushing him downward, not lifting him up. He shields his face with a gnarled, twisted hand from the blinding, merciless glare of an unseen sun.

“Icarus, Icarus,” Vesuvius murmurs, his voice a low, amused purr as he sips his blood-red wine, seamlessly joining their conversation. “Get off the goddamn ledge. You’ve drunk too much. And besides,” he adds, a cynical smile playing on his lips, “everyone knows… people rise only from below.”

He feigns surprise at the presence of my beautiful, and currently very serious, wife, lazily saluting me with his wine glass.

“I wouldn’t recommend buying this Carlson fellow,” he nods dismissively at the enormous, depressing painting. “Seriously, Mykola. It was outdated before the paint even dried.”

“We’re more interested in the contemporary Asian pieces tonight,” Diana replies, her voice cool, professional, not giving him an inch. The great collector, for his part, barely spares her a passing glance.

I pull my wife closer, tightening my arm around her waist in a subtle, territorial gesture.

“We’re planning to buy something… out from under someone… tonight,” I hint to Vesuvius. His perfectly sculpted eyebrows lift, a flicker of genuine interest in his usually bored, world-weary eyes.

“What the hell happened to you, Mykola?” he asks, a slow, amused smirk spreading across his face. “Since when do you chase after mere… blotches of paint?”

The word “blotches” sounds menacing coming from him—a man who just last week bought a lost Caravaggio for a sum that would make a small nation weep.

“Connect me with that drunken, impulsive Irishman over there. He’s reserved three of the paintings I want.”

“You’ve always been a cheapskate, Mykola,” Ves says, brushing a piece of non-existent dust from the sleeve of his immaculate tuxedo, casting an impenetrable, almost bored glance at the now openly amused Undine.

“It may seem unlikely, given my chosen profession,” I say, taking Diana’s hand in mine, lacing my fingers through hers, “but I do, in fact, know how to count. And that guy,” I nod towards the red-faced Irishman, “rides on pure impulse. He’d sell his own children for a few cheap auction wins.

By now, he should be drunk enough to think…

finally rationally . At least, for a price. ”

“Not really,” the collector grimaces, swirling the wine in his glass. “It won’t work. No one would believe I have such a vested, and sudden, interest in emerging contemporary Asian art. It’s not my brand. You go charm him, Frez.”

“Few people are truly, genuinely interested in contemporary art, my dears,” Undine winks at Diana, a shared, conspiratorial gesture.

“And that,” Ves tilts his head, signaling to a passing waiter for more wine, “is entirely, completely its own fault.”

“Though I do buy it, of course,” Undine admits, smiling at us. “But I’ll be perfectly honest with you both – I’m not much different from a simple, uneducated countryside bumpkin. I don’t understand a single, solitary damn thing about this so-called… genius of modernity.”

“Genius and modernity, my dear Undine, are fundamentally incompatible,” he declares, his voice heavy with a theatrical, world-weary sigh.

“Christ Almighty, this wine is fucking awful. The museum must be struggling financially. I can only hope that future generations, with their advanced, AI-enhanced intellects, will somehow find a way to make sense of our current, contemporary, and largely nonsensical scribbles.”

“Art,” Diana says suddenly, her voice quiet, but clear, cutting through their cynical, witty banter, “is the experience of seeking understanding, Vesuvius. It’s not a mathematical formula to be solved.”

“Good Lord,” he mutters into his wine glass, casting another, longer, more appraising look at her this time. “Mrs. Frez just solved a generational, and deeply philosophical, artistic dilemma. In one sentence.”

Yes. My Diana is exactly like that. When she finally, finally speaks her mind, she cuts straight to the heart of the matter. With a devastating, beautiful, almost brutal precision.

I hope, I pray, that she can one day say , just as clearly, just as unequivocally…

…that she loves me.

Someday. At some point. Somehow.

I just have to wait a little longer. And really, I need to have her goddamn ring resized. It’s still too loose on her slender finger.

Someday.

Much later, Vesuvius and I slip away to the crowded bar for a more private conversation. To her credit, Undine uses the opportunity to graciously introduce Diana to an influential circle of Parisian gallery owners.

“I need a wife,” Vesuvius announces, without preamble.

He gestures to the beleaguered bartender to fetch a specific, and undoubtedly even more expensive, bottle from the very top shelf.

The sleeve of his tuxedo strains dangerously across his broad, surprisingly muscular shoulders.

There are many great, unsolved mysteries in this world.

And one of them is how, precisely, Vesuvius Rodin manages to squeeze his formidable, and clearly not-at-all-emaciated, frame into these ridiculously slim-fitting, European-cut suits.

I scan the crowded, glittering room. Vesuvius has been “searching” for a suitable wife for a very, very long time.

No. Correction. Vesuvius has been pretending to search for a wife for a very, very long time.

“She can’t need my money, of course,” he continues, his voice a low, bored drawl. “But she has to… fit into all this,” he waves a dismissive hand at the opulent, chaotic scene around us, “better than I do.”

In other words, he wants a real lady from a family with old, established European money. She is the very kind of entitled, pedigreed creature he so publicly despises.

“I know a wonderful woman in New York,” I say, a slow, wicked smile spreading across my face. “They say she’s the best, and most discreet, therapist on the entire planet.”

“Go ahead, Mykola, keep joking,” Ves rolls his eyes, though a faint, reluctant smile touches his lips. “You found yourself a wife. A real, live, breathing one. Are they… are they making any more like her?”

I look at him for a long, unblinking, unmoving moment.

“Oh, cut it out, you possessive bastard,” he groans, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. “Why the death stare? I don’t go for other men’s wives. Honestly. My cock just doesn’t get hard for them. But I could really use a blonde.”

I take a slow, deliberate sip of my club soda, my gaze drifting across the crowded room, back to Diana. She’s deep in conversation now with exactly the right people. The most influential, the most connected. She’s not just holding her own. She’s… she’s a fucking queen bee. A natural.

It’s blatantly obvious that Royce will hand his revolutionary, world-changing technology over to me.

Without a second thought. He’ll see, right away, that my heart, my soul, my entire goddamn universe, is in Diana Bilova’s small, capable, and occasionally very stubborn hands.

And there’s no safer, more secure place for it in the entire world.

“Not even a little?” I narrow one eye at Ves, a silent, predatory challenge. He scowls at his wine again, refusing to meet my gaze.

“Swear to God, Mykola. On my entire, and very extensive, Picasso collection. Other men’s wives… they’re like a cold fucking shower to me. I’m a man of principles.”

Debatable whether “man” is the right word. He’s more of a shark. In a tuxedo. And let’s be honest, he doesn’t actually give a flying fuck about his Picasso collection. The man simply owns too many goddamn Picassos for that kind of sentimental attachment.

“Sure, sure,” I say, pushing off from the bar, saluting him with my soda water. “You go charm that drunken Irishman for me, Ves, and I’ll… I’ll throw a little matrimonial luck your way.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s obvious how you made a career out of being a relentless, hustling son of a bitch,” Ves mutters into his wine. “But you know, Mykola… there’s something to what your lovely wife said earlier. About the… the search for understanding.”

“You don’t wait for a fucking translation when birds sing, do you, my friend?” I spread my hands, a philosophical gesture. “And hell if anyone knows what the hell they’re actually singing about.”

On my way back to Diana, I bump into a series of old acquaintances. Business rivals. Assorted sycophants.

I accept their insincere congratulations. I pretend each one is new. But the truth is, the wonder of it all is still real. Diana is my wife. And that simple fact is life-alteringly incredible.

They could find a drive-thru McDonald’s on Mars tomorrow and I still wouldn’t be as gobsmacked as I am by the glorious fact that Diana Bilova is my wife.

With a few self-deprecating jokes, I ease back into Diana’s conversation with a circle of influential French art critics. I know I’m losing my edge, but in all honesty? I don’t give a fuck.

And Diana… well, Diana is clearly past her first, cautious glass of champagne. Maybe even her second.

A lovely, becoming blush peeks through her flawless makeup. And a little later, when she thinks no one is looking, she leans in and kisses me. A quick, secret, almost defiant kiss, right in front of everyone.

And I suddenly feel like buying that depressing, overwrought “Icarus” piece after all. Because honestly? I’m ready to jump too. Straight into the sun. With her. For her.

As we leave, she fumbles with her coat, her soft laughter echoing through the empty gallery. I step in to fasten the buttons for her—my intoxicating little thief—and she rewards me by tracing her fingers over mine, her own laughter muffled against my lips.

“You’re always fussing over me,” she grumbles, her voice a little slurred, her eyes sparkling.

We step outside into the cool night air. Instead of walking towards the car where Hugo waits, she pulls me sideways into the shadows.

I catch her easily, with near-military precision, as she stumbles slightly on the uneven cobblestones. And she presses her thumb to my nose. Like a button. A reset button.

“We’re going back to the hotel now,” she explains with deliberate slowness. Her words are fuzzy around the edges, as if she thinks I’m the one who’s drunk.

Her voice is full of a happy, champagne-fueled determination. “And then,” she declares, “I am going to undress you. Slowly. Thoroughly.” She pauses to give me a hard poke in the chest, then points a wavering finger at herself. “Me,” she enunciates with painstaking care. “I’m going to do it.”

And then she bursts into laughter again. The joyous, uninhibited sound echoes through the quiet courtyard.

From the corner of my eye, I see Hugo smiling behind the wheel of the car.

Good Lord.

Diana Bilova should never, ever be allowed to drink champagne.

Or maybe… maybe she should be allowed to drink it all the time .