Page 73 of Charmingly Obsessed
I jerk when he unexpectedly gives my breasts a firm, possessive squeeze. Before I can even register annoyance, he laughs against my ear—a warm, pleased, utterly masculine sound. Then his hand drifts lower, spreading heat down my back to study the curve of my spine and the swell of my ass.
Mykola pulls his hands out from under my hoodie, his fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head back. He kisses my nose. Softly. Playfully. “Time to eat, wife.” He sits me up, adjusting my position against the mountain of pillows, settling the heavy silver tray more comfortably across my lap.
I try to push down the wave of embarrassment that washes over me. It’s uncomfortable how much he fusses, how much hesees. I’m glad he hasn’t seen my actual passport and doesn’t suspect I’m thirty-three—such a disgrace. This ridiculous, childish inability to accept kindness is exactly why I avoid relationships, because my own awkward and insecure behavior is inevitable.
Oh god. There’s actual, visible flour toasted into the omelet. And it’s… slightly burnt on one side.
“It’s delicious,” I say, forcing a bright, convincing smile, bravely taking a bite. He even added spinach.
“Doubt it’s very good,” he sighs, though his eyes are still twinkling with that possessive amusement. “But thanks for humoring me. Probably nothing compared to what you make. You’re practically a professional chef, aren’t you? With those pastries…”
“No.” I shake my head after finally managing to swallow the slightly rubbery, spinach-and-flour-infused bite of omelet. “I just… I bake to relax. To cope. I only really work with dough. And I do love making crepes.”
“And does it help? The baking? The relaxing?”
“Yes,” I nod, then again, a little more emphatically. Then, on a sudden, impulsive whim, I lean over and kiss his cheek, a quick, light brush of my lips against his stubbled skin. In thanks for breakfast. For… everything. He lazily, possessively, runs his hand along my bare leg, from my ankle all the way up to mid-thigh, his touch sending another jolt of illicit heat through me.
“You’ll have to teach me, then. I think… I think I need to learn how to relax too. Urgently.”
He definitely has the opposite kind of neuroses from me – his are all sharp edges and coiled, restless energy. But of course, I’ll teach him. Or try to. It’ll probably be a complete, unmitigated disaster. But with him, I’m rapidly discovering, even disasters are… strangely, exhilaratingly funny. Everything seems funny to me now. Like I’ve caught whatever contagious, slightly unhinged madness he’s got.
“So,” I begin, taking another, slightly less terrifying bite of omelet. “Today’s New Year’s Eve, and…”
“Yes, obviously it’s New Year’s Eve. We’ve officially been married for one whole, glorious, life-altering day. Champagne is definitely in order. Again.”
“I meant… Serafima Pylypivna’s New Year’s celebration,” I clarify, feeling my cheeks heat again. “A-are you… are you coming? Tonight?”
I fight the sudden, desperate urge to chew on my fingernails and just stare at him instead, waiting.
“Ah.” He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. A small, almost apologetic smile touches his lips. “I have… urgent business. Tonight, unfortunately. A prior commitment I can’t break. But I’ll send you and Grandma Serafima some… appropriate treats. So you don’t miss my brilliant, sparkling presence too much.”
Grandma Serafima? He’s clearly trying to gauge whether I’m upset. Disappointed. But I can’t bring myself to show that kind of emotion openly. Not to him. Not yet. Of course, I’m upset. Of course, I’m disappointed.
But I just nod, forcing another polite, brittle smile.
28
Chapter 28 Diana
We’re flying to Paris in two days.
Mykola is relentless on that front. He wants to be there as soon as humanly, or rather, private-jet-ly, possible. Even Royce himself, the elusive Texan linchpin of this whole insane charade, will only be arriving in France in a week.
I knew, at least in theory, how vastly different Mykola Frez’s life was from that of ordinary, mortal people. But now that I have to actually adjust to it myself, now that I’m a reluctant passenger on his high-speed, high-stakes rollercoaster, the sheer, overwhelming complexity of even the simplest daily tasks is… mind-boggling.
I can only use certain encrypted phones, specific secure internet channels. The sleek, matte black Centurion card he pressed into my hand this morning – “For emergencies, Diana. And… whatever else you might desire.” – requires constant,painstaking coordination with a dedicated personal relationship manager for even minor travel approvals, since the system flags transactions with extreme, almost paranoid sensitivity. And there are literally hundreds of other little, infuriating, time-consuming details like that.
Half of which Amanda, his terrifyingly efficient, New York-based executive assistant, patiently, and with only a hint of weary condescension, explains to me over a series of encrypted video calls.
Thankfully, Amanda is the one handling my… onboarding… into this strange, gilded, ridiculously complicated new world. Because Mykola…sigh. He treats all of it – the security protocols, the private jets, the army of staff, the constant scrutiny – as completely, utterly normal. He does everything on autopilot, with an effortless, almost bored competence that I find both intimidating and, God help me, incredibly attractive.
And on top of all that, he gets weirdly, stubbornly tense, almost… hostile, whenever I try to bring up the subject of prenuptial agreements or any kind of formal contract regarding my “employment” as his temporary art consultant wife.
By lunchtime, after my third or fourth attempt to broach the subject, I finally realize, with a sinking heart, that he’s flat-out refusing to sign a prenup. He won’t admit it outright, of course. He just deflects, distracts, changes the subject with infuriating charm. Probably so he doesn’t look like some kind of… sentimental fool. Or maybe because he genuinely doesn’t think it’s necessary. Because he genuinely intends for this to be… real? The thought sends another wave of panic, mixed with a treacherous, unwanted flicker of hope, through me.
His so-called chivalry, his refusal to protect his own vast assets from his grasping, temporary wife, does absolutely nothing for my peace of mind.
Even if I completely lost my mind and decided to go after just ten percent of the endless, unimaginable string of zeros in his bank account after our inevitable, quickie divorce, his army of shark-like lawyers would handle it all before he even had to lift a perfectly manicured finger. No temporary, convenience-marriage wife would ever get a single cent. Unless he wanted her to.
