Page 108 of Charmingly Obsessed
“Well, well, well,” a familiar, deep voice says from directly behind me. “I can’t leave you alone for a single fucking minute, can I, wife?”
Mykola slips a strong, possessive arm around my waist and drapes his heavy wool jacket over my trembling shoulders.
I shift sluggishly in his embrace, but my terrified, mesmerized gaze flickers back to Malasenco, who is still smirking, still staring.
And Mykola, my husband, my protector, turns and follows my gaze.
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Chapter 43 Mykola
The moment I turn toward the grand, sweeping staircase of the hotel, I immediately want to go back. Back to her. Back to the rumpled sheets and the intoxicating scent of our bodies. Back to the surreal, fragile bubble of our shared confession.
But I stubbornly, almost punishingly, make my way down to the next floor, then the next, my footsteps echoing in the pre-dawn quiet.
I shouldn’t have questioned her like that. Shouldn’t have taken advantage of her drunken, beautiful honesty. Shouldn’t have jumped on her, all possessive and demanding, the second she admitted she loved me.
I am – or at least, I was – better than this. Better than this petty, insecure cowardice. But ever since that first, catastrophicday three years ago, I’ve been acting like an absolute, unmitigated fool when it comes to Diana Bilova.
I believe her. I believe she told me the truth last night. The look in those incredible eyes… I remember it so clearly. So open. So vulnerable. So utterly, heartbreakingly defenseless.But I will protect you, Diana. I swear on my life, I will.
She loves me. I repeat the words to myself, a silent, desperate mantra, and the marble steps seem to disappear beneath my feet. She loves me. And in the end, that’s all that matters. Everything else… it’s just noise.
I only realize how I must look once I’m on the street—a disheveled, slightly unhinged man striding through the pre-dawn emptiness of Paris. I’m probably trotting like a prize-winning show horse, all restless energy and pent-up adrenaline. It’s a good thing I haven’t knocked over any innocent pedestrians. Yet.
I bum a cigarette from a grizzled construction worker at the end of a cobblestoned alley. He explains with a shrug that they’re renovating the historic building next door to open another five-star luxury hotel. We trade a few cynical remarks about how, at this rate, Atlantis-themed lobbies will soon be popping up all over Paris.
Back in the hushed, opulent lobby of our hotel, I nearly collide with the impeccably dressed and eternally flustered general manager. He tells me in a confidential murmur that my wife just stepped out into the courtyard garden.
Yes. My wife. Diana is my wife. My sunshine. My snowflake. My beautiful, infuriating little thief.
I’ll fix the aftermath of my idiotic behavior right now. I’ll apologize. I’ll grovel. I’ll…
Diana stands in the middle of the garden path, the dramatic green of ancient fir branches a stark contrast to her pale, luminous skin. She’s hugging her slender frame, having runoutside with barely anything on. Was she looking for me? The thought sends a potent surge of warm possession through me.
“Well,” I say, “I can’t leave you alone for a single fucking minute, can I, wife?”
I try to fasten the wool jacket I’d draped over her earlier. The faint breeze has tousled her blonde curls. I have to physically stop myself from reaching out to touch them, from feeling the impossible softness of her skin.
She turns her head slightly, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think she’s going to look at me. But her gaze drifts away again, unfocused and distant. She hardly even blinks.
Diana is tense in a strange, unnatural, almost catatonic way, as if her body is turning to stone.
I follow her fixed, empty gaze. Only three other people are in the courtyard: an elderly couple sipping espressos and a bundled-up hotel staffer fussing with a breakfast cart.
And… him.
I don’t recognize Malasenco at first. He’s aged badly, though he’s dressed well now. I suppose it’s never too late for that.
Then a chilling certainty hits me: he’s staring straight at my wife. He’s staring at her with a look that’s both familiar and predatory.
I turn back to Diana. She’s frozen, staring into the emptiness as if her mind has slipped into another world.
What the actual hell is going on? Reality feels like a badly spliced film reel where some malevolent editor has cut in scenes that don’t belong.
Gennadiy and I used to do business together a long time ago. I use the past tense for a reason. Everything about those murky early dealings—that first chaotic conglomerate we built—has always been hazy to me. Business processes and balance sheets are not my world; I can only observe them as a detachedspectator. We were never close, Malasenco and I. It wasn’t because he’s from a different generation; it just worked out that way.
So, do they know each other? Diana and him?
