Page 57 of Charmingly Obsessed
It has distinctive golden-turquoise lines and smudged yellow streaks. Familiar. Stunned, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs again, I pull it out.
It’s my painting.Étude Twelve. A small, almost insignificant piece. One of my early, experimental works. I don’t even remember when, or to whom, I sold it. It was years ago.
I stand there, frozen, staring at it. At my own hesitant, uncertain brushstrokes. My own flawed, childish vision.
What in God’s name is it doing here?In his bedroom?
Memories, sharp and unwelcome, flood in. His voice, deep, slightly hollow, laced with that casual, unintentional cruelty from three years ago, echoing in my head—
…an emotional cripple…
…stunted, slow, incomplete… infantile…
I shove the painting back into its hiding place, my hands trembling. I smooth down my wrinkled dress, my face flaming with a fresh wave of humiliation.
None of this matters. It happened a long time ago. Ancient history. And everything he said back then… it was true. About the art. About me.
That was the moment, that disastrous first meeting, that I realized Mykola Frez wasn’t just some empty, charming suit. People always whispered about his uncanny instincts, his almost supernatural ability to read people, to understand their hidden motivations. If you believed the online gossip, the man understood human nature and human weakness better than the Devil himself.
They weren’t exaggerating. Not by much.
Steadying myself, forcing my thoughts into a practical, unemotional direction, I step out into the main living area.
23
Chapter 23 Diana
Frez is nowhere to be seen. Maybe that’s for the best. Less awkwardness. Fewer opportunities for me to make a complete fool of myself. Again.
I’ll just… figure out how to get out of here. I doubt anyone’s going to rob him if I leave the door unlocked on my way out. Though that would be rude. And he’d probably hunt me down.
I make myself some tea in his state-of-the-art kitchen, my hands still shaking slightly.
I scribble a rough plan for the Royce project in my phone notes. I’ll send it to him later. With some… professional questions. Keep it business.
Turns out, Frez was out for a run.
He comes back through a service entrance I hadn’t noticed, barely dressed for the chilly autumn weather – just shorts and athin, sweat-soaked t-shirt that clings to his ridiculously defined torso.
His step falters slightly when he sees me sitting at his kitchen island, nursing my tea. He changes course, heading towards the massive, stainless-steel refrigerator instead of the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
He wasn’t expecting me to still be here. I can see it in his eyes. The surprise. The flicker of… something else. Relief? Hope?
I force myself to offer a small, polite smile. I should have left last night. Crept out while he was sleeping. Avoided this.
“I was just about to head out,” I say, my voice even, carefully neutral, before he can speak, before he can ask any awkward questions.
Frez doesn’t even glance at the contents of the fridge as he pulls out a sleek, glass bottle of water. His eyes are locked on me. Intense. Unreadable.
Is it normal for billionaires to drink ice-cold water in the deep autumn, right after sweating through a run? Probably. They probably have internal thermostats made of platinum.
“I have yogurt,” he says quickly, his voice still a little rough from sleep. “And muesli. And I can make eggs. Scrambled? Omelet? Zoya’s coming in about two hours – I asked her to come in late today. She can make a proper breakfast. Pancakes, if you like. Or…”
His politeness will be the death of him someday.
It’s a wonder it hasn’t already killed me. But then again, his cold, ruthless calculation is usually reserved for finance. His one true passion.His true love.
Marrying me, a virtual stranger, is just his latest move to get his manicured hands on some revolutionary technology. I already knew the rumors about him chasing a reclusive American inventor named Royce to build a world-changing company.
