Page 6 of Charmingly Obsessed

B y noon, the apartment smells like butter, sugar, and vanilla – a desperate attempt to bake my way back to normalcy.

Everything is packed, ready. Kozar’s thugs are due at one.

The fact I can find anything amusing today is solely thanks to the batch of sweet cheese pastries cooling on the rack. Kneading dough, shaping it, watching it rise – it’s grounding.

My phone has been buzzing intermittently since morning. Albina. I let it go to voicemail twice before finally answering, bracing myself. But she’s a pro – HR director first, eternally kind woman second. The call is civil, concerned.

“Diana,” she sighs, her voice warm but laced with worry as the conversation winds down. “Please tell me this isn’t really about… that day .”

That day. The infamous kitchen incident. ‘Kiss and Burn.’ It’s the blockbuster drama of my tenure at Frez Enterprises, apparently destined for endless reruns. Never mind the sequel that premiered yesterday in the courtyard outside this very building.

“No, absolutely not,” I lie smoothly. “That was three years ago. Ancient history.”

“Some things don’t have a statute of limitations, honey. And trauma… sometimes it takes years to surface.”

She means me, processing life at the speed of continental drift.

She’s not wrong. Turtles probably gossip about my reaction times.

“Honestly, Albina, I’m fine. Forgotten all about it.

” Another lie. How can I forget when the man involved refuses to let me?

When his kiss from yesterday is still imprinted on my nerve endings?

The doorbell rips through the fragile calm. Too early. My stomach plummets. A quick glance through the peephole confirms my worst fear.

Frez.

Shit. Shit. Shit. The gangsters will be here any minute. Panic claws at my throat. Plan A: Don’t let him in. But he might wait downstairs, linger. He’d run right into Kozar’s men. Plan B: Let him in, get him out. Fast. Plan C: Hide him? Where? In the closet with Anya’s ghost?

No time. The thugs think I’m moving out tomorrow; they’re just bringing paperwork today. If I can get Frez out now…

I wrench the door open, grabbing his arm before he can fully register my appearance. “You need to come in. Quickly. Let’s go.” I practically haul him over the threshold.

But Mykola Frez doesn’t do ‘quickly’ when he’s on a mission.

He closes the door with agonizing slowness, his movements deliberate, controlled. He turns, his gaze sweeping over me, intense and searching.

Something flickers in his eyes – raw, unguarded, almost vulnerable – and it freezes me for a half-second.

Oh, right. I probably look like a lunatic. Wild eyes, flour dusting my cheek, dragging a billionaire into my doomed apartment.

“The dough!” I babble, latching onto the first excuse. “It’s about to spoil. Kitchen. Hurry.” The only way my dough will spoil is if I don’t get these pastries delivered to the homeless shelter van on time. Which, thanks to this unexpected invasion, is looking increasingly likely.

He follows me into the small, sunlit kitchen.

I’m hyper-aware of everything. The way my slim tweed trousers feel against my skin, the turquoise ribbon at the V-neck of my pink blouse lying slightly askew.

The contrast with his casual-but-expensive gray jeans and that blue checkered blazer – the one with the ridiculously charming leather elbow patches.

How does he make elbow patches look sexy?

He slides onto one of the worn kitchen chairs without being asked while I busy myself making coffee.

The silence presses down, thick and heavy, amplifying the frantic ticking of the clock in my head. Get him out. Get him out. Irritation bubbles up, hot and sharp, and I stride over to the window, yanking the curtains wider, letting the cold, indifferent sunlight flood the room.

“Thanks,” he says evenly when I place the steaming mug in front of him. His voice is that low, gravelly timber that does stupid things to my insides.

I slide the plate piled high with golden pastries towards him, then fuss with rearranging the salt and pepper shakers, the napkin holder. Anything to avoid looking at him. Which is why I don’t immediately notice the odd expression on his face when I finally turn back.

He’s staring down into his coffee cup like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“W-what’s wrong?” The nervous tremor in my voice betrays me. Was the cup dirty? Did a bug fall in? Oh God.

I reach tentatively towards his mug, intending to inspect it, but he pulls it fractionally closer, breaking the spell. He lifts his gaze to mine.

“What?” I squeak.

“Nothing. Coffee’s good.”

Of course, it’s good. It’s exactly how he takes it – strong, black, no sugar.

A detail absorbed unconsciously during those first six months when he still graced the office with his presence, lingering in the communal kitchen, charming everyone from the mailroom guy to the cleaners.

The man went to our janitor’s wedding, for crying out loud.

Gifted them a honeymoon in Mallorca. He notices things. He remembers things.

Panic flutters. I stand abruptly, turning my back, busying myself at the counter, pulling things randomly off shelves. Look, almond flour. Fancy.

“Help yourself to the pastries,” I call over my shoulder, trying to sound casual. “Don’t be shy.” At this rate, I’ll have enough left over to offer Kozar’s goons a snack while they serve me eviction papers.

When I finally muster the courage to turn and sit back down, my face is set in what I hope is an expression of cool indifference. Time to take control. Time to lay out my plan.

Naturally, he speaks first, seizing control with the effortless authority of a man born to command.

And as I listen, the sheer audacity of his proposal leaves me utterly speechless.

“So, here’s the thing,” he begins, his tone crisp, methodical, terrifyingly certain.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, pinning me with that sharp gaze.

“You’ll handle the collections. The entire art direction vertical.

Acquisition strategy, curation, everything.

Once we’ve streamlined the existing assets and mapped out the acquisition targets, you’ll build your own team.

We can set you up in a separate office if you prefer – dedicated space, studio included, obviously.

You’ll liaise with Sotheby’s and Christie’s, directly under my oversight – they’ll try to obstruct, there are internal politics, nuances we need to navigate.

” He pauses, his eyes gleaming. “By the way, Christie’s will be very interested in your paintings.

So will several galleries downtown. We can aim for a New York debut next year – Tribeca is accessible, but we need to build your name first to maximize impact.

We’ll structure it so management duties don’t impede your studio time.

You’ll need to travel, of course. Attend the major art fairs with me for acquisitions.

” He taps his knuckles lightly on the table, a rhythmic counterpoint to my hammering heart.

His phone buzzes, ignored. “And now,” he finishes, his gaze sharpening further, “we need to discuss your problems. In detail.”

He waits, watching me, calculating my reaction like inputting data into a complex algorithm.

People like me, whose emotions hide behind layers of internal captchas – “Confirm you are human, please click all the squares containing raw terror” – must be exhausting for him. Frez thrives on emotion, reads it, wields it. It’s his native language.

That’s why he kissed me yesterday. Not just the command, but the intensity, the claiming . He was testing me, provoking a reaction, trying to crack the code. I still can’t fully decipher it, lacking his social fluency.

A private collections manager with her own office studio, reporting directly to Mykola Frez. Artnet would have a field day. It’s insane. It’s… tempting.

“I want to acquire Twombly,” he continues, listing artists like strategic targets. “Liu Ye. Fan Zhi. Right now. And track down all available Mirós from private hands.”

“Liu Ye?” The name escapes me in a breath of genuine excitement, momentarily overriding the panic. “That’s… amazing. I love his work. And Miró – yes, absolutely. Her use of color…” My voice trails off as I catch myself.

One of his fingers slips slightly off the tabletop. He straightens marginally in his chair, a subtle shift.

I want to show him my plan, the notes scribbled frantically last night. I reach across the table to move an empty plate out of the way—

Wait. The plate is empty. Utterly clean.

My gaze snaps up to his face. There were four large pastries on that plate three minutes ago.

“Where are the pastries?” The question comes out sharper than intended.

“Ate them,” he sighs, and for the first time since I’ve known him, Mykola Frez actually looks… sheepish. He avoids my gaze, focusing intently on stirring his already black coffee.

All four? In three minutes? Forget financial genius; I’ve been working alongside the undisputed world champion of competitive pastry eating.

Billionaires . Even when it comes to baked goods intended for the homeless, their ruthless efficiency is unmatched.

“Oh. Right. Good. Enjoy. I can get more… I was just surprised. Thought maybe they’d… fallen.”

“They were delicious,” he says, his voice dropping deeper, his gaze finally lifting to meet mine, direct and unwavering.

And for a crazy, heart-stopping second, the intensity in his eyes feels possessive, like he could only possibly desire the person who made them. Me.

My hands clench in my lap. Get a grip, Diana. This is not about pastries or desire. This is about survival.

Frustration washes over me – frustration at him, at the situation, at my own stupid, susceptible heart.

“I want to make a deal with you,” I manage, pulling out the folded piece of paper containing my desperate, scribbled plan.

“A deal,” Frez repeats, the words clipped, precise. His jaw clenches almost imperceptibly. He gives a sharp nod. “Fine. Compensation. Name… your price. Any amount.”

“I can’t work in the main office. I can set up at home, come in as needed… By the way, where are the primary storage units located—?”

It hits me then. What he just said. Compensation. Any amount. Compensation… for what? Not salary. The way he said it…

“I don’t understand,” I say slowly, lowering my paper. “What do you mean by compensation?”

He snatches the paper from my hand before I can react, his eyes scanning it rapidly, flicking down to the last line.

Heat rushes to my cheeks – my plan looks pathetic, amateurish. I fight the urge to grab it back.

“Nothing,” he says abruptly, too quickly. “I mean, just salary expectations. That’s all. Standard negotiation.”

He slides a small, thick card across the table towards me.

Like a business card, but blank except for a number scrawled across it in bold, black ink.

A number so large it takes up the entire surface.

“I’ve prepared an offer. And yes, working from home is fine initially. But I need to understand why .”

The sunlit kitchen suddenly feels arctic. Ice forms in my veins.

The number is impossibly large for a collections manager’s salary. This isn’t a job offer.

Compensation, he said . For the burn? For the brutal kiss three years ago? For yesterday? Is this his twisted way of trying to buy my silence, my compliance, my forgiveness?

I push back my chair, standing so quickly it scrapes loudly against the floor.

The thugs. They’re coming. He needs to leave. Now. This isn’t a game. He can’t be here. The thought of Frez – intense, unpredictable, powerful Frez – colliding with Kozar’s brutal enforcers right here sends a fresh wave of terror through me.

I grab the card, intending to march to the trash can.

But as my fingers close around the thick paper, something inside me snaps. Like a taut wire breaking. A blade slicing through canvas.

With a strangled cry, I rip the offending card in half. Then again. And again, tearing the obscene number into tiny, meaningless pieces.