Page 2 of Charmingly Obsessed
A blinking tag confirms it. Frez’s main fund has a massive energy conference scheduled for December. I am meant to start the branding next week.
Even I, the office financial illiterate, know that portfolio is foundational. Big, big money.
My hand finds the cold metal lock on my desk drawer. A nervous habit. Don’t tug it. Yesterday, I exceeded my antidepressant dose. Today, I skip it entirely as punishment. Focus.
“You need to confirm that with Crosby. Immediately,” I say, forcing my voice to stay level. “Find out if the conference is officially cancelled. Hold off on any drafts until we—”
The heavy office door flies open, slamming against the doorframe with a sickening crack.
A man stands in the doorway, breathing hard.
He looks… wrecked. His usually impeccable sandy hair is dishevelled. Sweat dampens his temples and the collar of a bespoke shirt that is clinging to his broad chest.
His eyes—an impossibly dark blue—burn with a feverish, wild intensity.
My brain short-circuits.
Mykola Frez.
Two and a half years. Gone. And now he is here, in my office, looking like a storm given human form.
His gaze locks onto mine with an unnerving focus, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to just us. The air crackles, charged and humming. Then his eyes flick to David.
The shift is instantaneous. The air turns to ice.
“Out,” Frez bites out. His voice is not the smooth baritone I remember. It is raw. Like gravel. Worn thin.
David scrambles from his chair, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden, terrifying silence.
Frez stands there for a moment, head slightly bowed, as if gathering himself. Or maybe unravelling.
Then he turns. Not fully. Just his upper body, pivoting towards me with a predator’s coiled tension. He looks at me, really looks at me, with an intensity so raw it feels like a physical touch.
He takes a step closer. Then another. The scent of him hits me—expensive cologne undercut by something else. Something purely, primaly male.
He stops just feet from my desk, close enough for me to see the dark circles under his eyes, the muscle ticking in his jaw. My fingers tighten on the drawer lock, the cold metal a useless anchor.
He leans over the desk, caging me in. His heat radiates towards me. His shadow falls over me, blocking out the light.
His eyes hold mine, dark and demanding.
“Your resignation,” he says, his voice a low, sharp command, “has been annulled.”
2
Chapter 2 Diana
Iwant to stand, to meet his gaze on equal footing, but my muscles refuse to obey. Some invisible force pins me down, cutting off the signals from my brain before they can reach my limbs. Frozen. Bolted to the floor by the sheer shock of his presence.
Mykola Frez. Here. After two and a half years. Looking like hell and acting like a madman.
“Technically,” I hear myself say, the voice thin and distant, like it belongs to someone else entirely, “no one but me can annul my own resignation. The only thing that can be annulled is the decision to accept it.”
God, I sound like a pedantic robot arguing semantics while my world implodes. Why is he here? Why is he doing this?
“Then consider everything annulled,” Frez declares, his voice carrying an unnerving clarity that chills me to the bone. He takesanother step closer, invading my personal space, his energy crackling, volatile. “Everything. There will be no resignation.”
I force my gaze away from the unsettling intensity in his eyes, the strange mix of exhaustion and feverish energy playing across his tanned features.
