Page 75 of Charmingly Obsessed
“Oh, you mean the wedding to which I, your devoted friend and landlady, was not invited?” She slaps the neatly folded kitchen towels with the flyswatter, as if trying to beat them into a state of perfect, wrinkle-free submission. And… obedience.
“It just… it just happened that way. It was very… sudden. We didn’t invite anyone. It just… happened.”
“Well.” Serafima Pylypivna adjusts her enormous glasses, peering at me over the jeweled rims, a small, enigmatic smile playing on her lips. “Since I was not physically present at said ceremony, there is, of course, no verifiable proof that itactuallyhappened, is there, my dear?” Her smile widens. “And Hippolyt, you know, gets a rather serious salary review every six months. He works with numbers too, just like your… Kolya.” She frowns slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Then shestraightens her already ramrod-straight spine. “But in a much more human field. He works in real estate. Very down-to-earth. Very stable.”
“So… I havea husbandnow. That’s… a fact.”
“A husband!” She snorts. “And what, pray tell, does a husband have to do with anything, Diana Bilova? Husbands are a relic of the past, my dear. An outdated institution. Especially for a woman like you. A husband, in your particular case, is positively contraindicated. We are looking for –and we will find– you a suitable lover. And what a magnificent name! Hippolyt! So strong! So… virile!”
I can only hope that our lovely, bicycle-riding neighbor, Nadya from Apartment 15, is actively, aggressively looking for a groom. Maybe, just maybe, I can redirect Serafima Pylypivna’s formidable, matchmaking efforts into a more… productive, and less personally terrifying, direction.
When the liveried courier arrives later that evening, bearing an enormous, almost obscenely ostentatious bouquet of flawless, long-stemmed white roses, I’m genuinely surprised.
Frez had given me that single, perfect, uniquely beautiful pink tulip, before the… fight. And this… this veritable flower bed of pristine, almost sterile white roses isn’t exactly… us. Or him. Or me. It feels… impersonal. Generic.
Along with the flowers, there’s a small, clumsy-looking, plainly wrapped package.
I eagerly tear open the heavy, cream-colored envelope accompanying the bouquet, my fingers trembling slightly. I know Mykola. He must have come up with something amusing, something witty, something… him, to write.
It’s such a shame he won’t be here tonight for Serafima’s New Year’s Eve party. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow, until Paris, to… to be with him again.
My hands, I’ve always prided myself, almost never tremble. It’s just how my body works. My nervous system. When I experience shock, or distress, or extreme emotion, I freeze up. Go numb. As if my blood has turned to ice, and I physically lose the ability to move, to react.
But as I unfold the stiff, expensive cardstock, as my eyes scan the elegant, unfamiliar calligraphy, my hands start to shake. Violently.
“My sincere congratulations on your acquisition, durepa. Couldn’t have picked a better, or more appropriate, gift. Tell your new husband. Tell your drunkard. Everything. Will he protect you now? For better, or for worse? Or will he just break and destroy you?”
My actions are slow and deliberate, driven by a stubborn fury. I crumple the card, smooth it flat, and then methodically tear it into unrecognizable shreds, destroying every hateful word.
Drunkard?
Mykola… drinks? Excessively? That… that unfortunate incident at the Greek hotel a few years ago, the one that got him blacklisted from Arman Resorts worldwide, was blamed on his drunken, boorish behavior. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he has an… an addiction. Does it?
I unwrap the clumsy package, my fingers fumbling with the cheap brown paper, eager to get this… this bad feeling, this sudden, sickening premonition, over with.
It’s some kind of fabric. Soft. Worn. Something… familiar. I’ve seen it before… I’ve touched it before…
A scream pushes its way out of my throat.
I try to stop it, to swallow it back down, but it forces its way past my clenched teeth, past my palm clamped hard over my mouth.
The dress. Anya’s favorite dress. The soft, faded blue cotton sundress she was wearing…
The dress she wore when she climbed onto that rickety wooden chair in our shared bedroom.
The dress she was wearing when they… when they took her down.
Serafima Pylypivna is suddenly there, her strong arms around me, her voice a low, soothing murmur in my ear.
She strokes my hair, trying to examine the crumpled blue fabric clutched in my shaking hands.
Any moment now, I’ll make myself move. Any second now, I’ll snap out of this.
“Oh, my poor, precious little rose,” she murmurs, her voice laced with a pain that mirrors my own. “All stiff and broken, like a discarded papier-mâché doll.” She tries to guide me towards a nearby chair, but I won’t budge. I can’t.
Any second now, I’ll move. I will.
I’m a lovesick, naive, pathetic fool. I forgot everything. I lost my goddamn mind. I never should have involved him in the apartment situation with Kozar’s thugs. I never should have spoken to him at all after that first disastrous meeting. And yet… and yet, I married him! I willingly walked into this gilded, terrifying cage.
