Page 103 of Charmingly Obsessed
I hope, I pray, that she can one daysay, just as clearly, just as unequivocally…
…that she loves me.
Someday. At some point. Somehow.
I just have to wait a little longer. And really, I need to have her goddamn ring resized. It’s still too loose on her slender finger.
Someday.
Much later, Vesuvius and I slip away to the crowded bar for a more private conversation. To her credit, Undine uses the opportunity to graciously introduce Diana to an influential circle of Parisian gallery owners.
“I need a wife,” Vesuvius announces, without preamble. He gestures to the beleaguered bartender to fetch a specific, and undoubtedly even more expensive, bottle from the very top shelf. The sleeve of his tuxedo strains dangerously across his broad, surprisingly muscular shoulders. There are many great, unsolved mysteries in this world. And one of them is how, precisely, Vesuvius Rodin manages to squeeze his formidable, and clearly not-at-all-emaciated, frame into these ridiculously slim-fitting, European-cut suits.
I scan the crowded, glittering room. Vesuvius has been “searching” for a suitable wife for a very, very long time.
No. Correction. Vesuviushas been pretendingto search for a wife for a very, very long time.
“She can’t need my money, of course,” he continues, his voice a low, bored drawl. “But she has to… fit into all this,” he waves adismissive hand at the opulent, chaotic scene around us, “better than I do.”
In other words, he wants a real lady from a family with old, established European money. She is the very kind of entitled, pedigreed creature he so publicly despises.
“I know a wonderful woman in New York,” I say, a slow, wicked smile spreading across my face. “They say she’s the best, and most discreet, therapist on the entire planet.”
“Go ahead, Mykola, keep joking,” Ves rolls his eyes, though a faint, reluctant smile touches his lips. “You found yourself a wife. A real, live, breathing one. Are they… are they making any more like her?”
I look at him for a long, unblinking, unmoving moment.
“Oh, cut it out, you possessive bastard,” he groans, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. “Why the death stare? I don’t go for other men’s wives. Honestly. My cock just doesn’t get hard for them. But I could really use a blonde.”
I take a slow, deliberate sip of my club soda, my gaze drifting across the crowded room, back to Diana. She’s deep in conversation now with exactly the right people. The most influential, the most connected. She’s not just holding her own. She’s… she’s a fucking queen bee. A natural.
It’s blatantly obvious that Royce will hand his revolutionary, world-changing technology over to me. Without a second thought. He’ll see, right away, that my heart, my soul, my entire goddamn universe, is in Diana Bilova’s small, capable, and occasionally very stubborn hands. And there’s no safer, more secure place for it in the entire world.
“Not even a little?” I narrow one eye at Ves, a silent, predatory challenge. He scowls at his wine again, refusing to meet my gaze.
“Swear to God, Mykola. On my entire, and very extensive, Picasso collection. Other men’s wives… they’re like a cold fucking shower to me. I’m a man of principles.”
Debatable whether “man” is the right word. He’s more of a shark. In a tuxedo. And let’s be honest, he doesn’t actually give a flying fuck about his Picasso collection. The man simply owns too many goddamn Picassos for that kind of sentimental attachment.
“Sure, sure,” I say, pushing off from the bar, saluting him with my soda water. “You go charm that drunken Irishman for me, Ves, and I’ll… I’ll throw a little matrimonial luck your way.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s obvious how you made a career out of being a relentless, hustling son of a bitch,” Ves mutters into his wine. “But you know, Mykola… there’s something to what your lovely wife said earlier. About the… the search for understanding.”
“You don’t wait for a fucking translation when birds sing, do you, my friend?” I spread my hands, a philosophical gesture. “And hell if anyone knows what the hell they’re actually singing about.”
On my way back to Diana, I bump into a series of old acquaintances. Business rivals. Assorted sycophants.
I accept their insincere congratulations. I pretend each one is new. But the truth is, the wonder of it all is still real. Diana is my wife. And that simple fact is life-alteringly incredible.
They could find a drive-thru McDonald’s on Mars tomorrow and I still wouldn’t be as gobsmacked as I am by the glorious fact that Diana Bilova is my wife.
With a few self-deprecating jokes, I ease back into Diana’s conversation with a circle of influential French art critics. I know I’m losing my edge, but in all honesty? I don’t give a fuck.
And Diana… well, Diana is clearly past her first, cautious glass of champagne. Maybe even her second.
A lovely, becoming blush peeks through her flawless makeup. And a little later, when she thinks no one is looking, she leans in and kisses me. A quick, secret, almost defiant kiss, right in front of everyone.
And I suddenly feel like buying that depressing, overwrought “Icarus” piece after all. Because honestly? I’m ready to jump too. Straight into the sun. With her. For her.
