Page 63 of Charmingly Obsessed
I readitfor the first time later that evening, alone in my borrowed bedroom.
Skeletal chestnut branches claw at the ancient window across from my bed. I lean against the cool windowsill and reluctantly open the news app.
On a major global gossip site, a screaming headline about a reclusive billionaire’s rushed wedding dominates the homepage. Its snarky, questioning tone practically vibrates off the screen: “Mykola Frez’s Shock Vegas-Style Elopement! Who IS the Mystery Bride? And Why the Sudden ‘I Do’s’? We’re All Dying of Curiosity Over Here, Folks!”
And then, nestled inside the salacious, speculative article, I find it.
The handiwork of his slick Italian publicist.
A personal, carefully crafted statement from Mykola Frez himself.
Regarding the “situation.” His word. Not mine.
This particular webpage – its neat, respectable rows of text suddenly morphing into a volley of poison-tipped arrows that strike me all at once – already has over two million views. And counting.
“The legendary financier,” the statement reads, “declined to comment in detail on the unexpected and delightful turn in his personal life, or the specific reasons for such a hasty, albeit joyful, marriage after thirty-seven famously freewheeling years of bachelorhood. Mr. Frez stated only, with characteristic candor and warmth:‘I am madly, deeply, and irrevocably obsessed with my wife. Which is, quite simply, why we decided to get married so quickly. When you know, you know. And I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life.’”
Madlyobsessed.
He’s madlyobsessed.
MADLY OBSESSED WITH HIS WIFE?!
Normally, I go catatonic in response to sudden, overwhelming stress. My brain shuts down. My body freezes. Fight, flight, or freeze? I’m a goddamn statue.
But this time… this time, something strange happens.
It’s like a dam of suppressed emotions finally bursts inside me, and a tidal wave of rage crashes over me, replacing my usual terrified paralysis with a violent storm.
I grab my battered handbag from the bed without a thought for my keys, wallet, or sanity. My ripped trench coat is still draped over a chair, so I throw it on, its torn sleeve flapping accusingly.
I shove my bare feet – no time for tights – into my worn leather ankle boots andbolt. Down the stairs and through the quiet of Serafima’s apartment building, until the cool air ofthe street finally hits my face. Stabbing furiously at the ride-hailing app on my phone with trembling fingers, my eyes flicking between the glowing screen and the rapidly approaching steps beneath my feet.
There’s a small, ridiculously overpriced boutique in the courtyard next to Serafima’s building. I’ll buy a replacement coat, any coat, while I wait for the taxi. Something to cover the goddamn rip. Something to hide behind.
At the grand, arched entrance to the courtyard, I nearly crash headlong into Nadya from Apartment 15, who’s engaged in her usual nightly struggle to maneuver her ancient, rattling bicycle through the narrow stone doorway.
She tries to wedge herself and the unwieldy bike inside, all while babbling a cheerful, nonsensical stream of chatter.
Her brightly colored, hand-knitted hood – complete with a ridiculous, oversizedpom-pomthat bounces with every movement – falls back, revealing a cascade of stunning gold hair. The kind of vibrant, impossibly thick hair you don’t even see in shampoo commercials.
Nadya, a perpetual PhD student, works as a bicycle courier to make ends meet. I have never met anyone less temperamentally suited for their chosen profession. She’s a walking, talking, beautifully chaotic disaster.
“Oh, Diana! Careful there, sweetie! This old beast has a mind of its own tonight! Nearly took out Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning begonias!”
Normally, I’d offer a polite, awkward smile and scurry past. But tonight… tonight, something snaps.
I grab the handlebars of her bike, expertly maneuvering its bulky frame through the narrow opening with a surprising, almost aggressive efficiency.
I even adjust the kickstand for her, setting it firmly on the cobblestones.
Nadya stares at me, her jaw agape, her usually sparkling brown eyes wide with astonishment. “Diana!” she exclaims, her voice filled with awe. “You’re… you’re like Wonder Woman! But with… better hair management skills!”
Yeah, well.A little bit.When I put my goddamn mind to something.
I burst into the brightly lit boutique. The air is thick with oppressive perfume, and I barely keep my balance on the polished marble floor in my rush. My heart sinks as I realize the store caters only to plus sizes.
Jewel-toned caftans and sequined palazzo pants glitter from every display—each one seeming to accuse me.
