Page 61 of Charmingly Obsessed
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Chapter 24 Diana
I’d initially thought even a month of this sham marriage would be an exercise in exquisite, unbearable torture. Turns out, surviving a single goddamn day as Mrs. Mykola Frez is already pushing the limits of my sanity.
The public detonation starts for me around noon, though the fuse was lit the moment Frez decided I was the key to his new technology. I’m seeking a moment of normalcy in a group chat with old friends when the first link drops, then another and another.
It turns out the marriage of Mykola Frez—elusive billionaire and financial demigod—is major news, creating waves far beyond the usual Instagram gossip.
It’s everywhere.
Frozen, I clutch my phone and scroll through an avalanche of headlines, blog posts, and unhinged Twitter threads. My name,Diana Bilova, is suddenly everywhere, inexplicably linking me as a “talented emerging artist” (thanks, I guess?) to a “financial genius” as millions dissect our supposed whirlwind romance.
Unable to help myself, my trembling fingers type my new, ludicrous name—Diana Frez—into the Google search bar. I brace for impact and there it is: the photo, splashed across a dozen news sites.
Yesterday’sphoto. From that surreal, after-hours ceremony at the City Hall annex.
Frez. Standing behind me, his arms wrapped possessively around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. Me. Looking… surprisingly serene. Almost happy. We look… God, we actually look good together. Like a real couple.
The thought sends a sharp, unwelcome pang through my chest. I will not save this photo. I will not. I absolutely will not. My finger hovers over the ‘save image’ option anyway.
It’s obvious now. His high-powered publicist, the one from that slick Italian PR agency he keeps on retainer, must have orchestrated this media blitz.
Leaked the photo. Crafted the narrative. Where else would the international press have gotten the picture so quickly? I highly doubt Business Insider has “sources” embedded in our local marriage registry office, bribing clerks for candid wedding snaps.
Why so fast? The question slams into me, almost knocking the air from my lungs. I don’t understand why I’m so blindsided by this, so… anxious.
Of course, Frez needs to make this official, public. To make it look natural, believable, to the eccentric Royce. A man like Mykola Frez doesn’t just acquire a wife out of thin air, like a new piece of art for his collection.
Everything is going according to his plan. His meticulous, manipulative, ruthlessly efficient plan. And I’m just a pawn. Apretty, slightly damaged pawn, perhaps, but a pawn nonetheless. And I’ll play my part. I’ll help him acquire his precious technology.
I’ll even reach out to my meager contacts in the art world, try to connect with the curators of the Paris galleries Royce supposedly plans to visit. We’ll pull this off. Or rather, he will. I’ll just be… the supporting actress in his blockbuster drama.
The next blow comes in the form of a flurry of messages pinging on my work phone, the one Frez’s team had couriered over this morning.
Apparently, no one in the world of Frez Enterprises wakes up before noon. Or maybe they were all just waiting for the official announcement before unleashing their… congratulations?
Aisana, the perky, eternally optimistic marketing assistant:OMG, Diana!!! Yay! SO happy for you! But also, kinda bummed – I already picked out a dress for the wedding! (P.S. I totally won 100 bucks in the office pool! Drinks on me when you come visit! We miss you! XOXO)
She… picked out a dress for our wedding? And there was an office pool?
How in God’s name did my sudden, inexplicable marriage to the elusive Mykola Frez become the subject of inter-departmental wagering?
A cold, clammy sweat breaks out on my skin.
Was my pathetic, schoolgirl crush on him really that obvious? Did everyone know? But why would they assume there was even a snowball’s chance in hell he’d ever look at me twice, let alone marry me? Because of that humiliating kiss in the kitchen? That was three years ago. Ancient history.
But apparently, office workers have memories like elephants. And a disturbing penchant for gossip.
Hugh, the smarmy VP of Something or Other, the one who’d been instrumental in the prank that led tothe kitchen incident:That was my doing, btw. The betting pool. Told you she had a thing for the boss! And everyone was SO against it! Said I was crazy! Pay up, suckers!
I grit my teeth, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over me. That night… the “betting”… it’s a blur. I barely remember the details, overshadowed as they were by the horror of what happened before. The public evisceration of my art. The agonizing burn.
But I remember the crushing certainty that Frez’s kiss was just a cruel game, a toxic belief fueled in part by Hugh’s leering insinuations and smug pronouncements.
Albina, the elegant, ever-professional HR Director, the only sane one in the bunch:Diana, my dear. You both have single-handedly restored my faith in humanity. And in romance. I am absolutely certain you will be wonderfully happy together. Wishing you both a lifetime of joy.
Her message, so sincere, makes me squirm the most. Because it’s all a lie. A sham. A three-month contract with a built-in expiration date.
