Page 48 of Charmingly Obsessed
Chapter 20 Diana
When you marry Mykola Frez, it’s generally assumed, I imagine, that one would be wearing something… appropriate. Designer, perhaps. Definitely tights. Or at the very least, underwear.
I, however, had neither.
My lacy black panties were currently residing in the pocket of my brand-new, extraordinarily handsome, slightly unhinged husband’s jeans. A trophy, he’d called them, with a wolfish grin that made my stomach flip.
And to add a final, farcical cherry on top of this surreal wedding sundae, the sleeve of my favorite trench coat ripped dramatically as I fumbled my way out of his Spectre at the surprisingly discreet City Hall annex. A minor inconvenience, as they say.
But for one wild, unsettling moment, I had the distinct and horrifying thought that I might end up walking down the aisle – or whatever passed for an aisle in this impromptu ceremony – completely, gloriously naked. Which, given the circumstances, felt almost fitting.
Back at his penthouse, I made one final attempt to get my underwear. But Mykola simply leaned against the chic stovetop with thoughtful, infuriating nonchalance. His eyes glinted with possessive fire as he answered me in a slow drawl:
“Don’t even think about it, sunshine. A man doesn’t relinquish spoils rightfully won in battle. There are far more… creative ways to break his heart, if that’s your aim.”
I’ve barely spoken a coherent sentence in the last hour. Mostly because there’s entirely too much to say, too many swirling, chaotic emotions, and absolutely nowhere to begin.
I will regret this for the rest of my life. I know that with a bone-deep certainty.
But the truth is, I physically, mentally, spiritually lost the ability to open my mouth and utter the word “no” the moment he stood before me in his living room, his eyes blazing with that terrifying, exhilarating proposal, looking like a concentrated mass of untamed energy crammed into a six-foot-plus frame of bespoke tailoring.
Resistance was futile. And, if I’m being brutally honest with myself, entirely unwanted.
Three months. That’s what I’d managed to negotiate. Three months of pretending to be Mrs. Mykola Frez.
Even one month of this charade feels unbearable, a lifetime. But three… three months is the compromise I’d clung to. For his goals. For his mysterious Texan. Not for me. Never for me.
The registry office – or rather, the private, after-hours annex Frez’s connections had miraculously conjured – greets us with an opulent, velvet-draped darkness.
The ceremony hall itself is suffocatingly pompous, all gilded curlicues and heavy damask, and completely, utterly empty. Save for us. Andher.
The registrar is a vision of impeccable, almost surreal professionalism. She exudes an aura of calm competence, as if she marries impulsive billionaires to their shell-shocked companions every evening, without prior appointments, armed only with a vague promise of “passports to follow” and a complete, glaring absence of wedding rings.
“You can, of course, purchase simple bands here, if you wish,” she offers, her voice smooth as polished silver, not a flicker of surprise or judgment in her serene gaze.
“Thank you,” Frez nods immediately, his expression uncharacteristically grave. “We will.”
“Two, please,” I pipe up, as if clarifying a crucial detail he might have missed.One for him, one for me.
My mouth opens before my brain can stop it, offering a completely unnecessary confirmation.Yes, there are two of us. We will require two rings. Brilliant deduction.The clerk offers a small, almost imperceptible smile at my anxious contribution, but Frez… Frez remains impossibly serious. Grim, even.
God, he looks like he’s attending his own funeral. Not a wedding.
Is he absolutely sure about this? Is he sure I know how to make a decent impression on a reclusive, art-obsessed Texan billionaire. I can talk about brushstrokes and provenance until the cows come home. But everything else… the actual wife part…
Frez is probably, right this very second, wondering how in God’s name he’s going to explain this impulsive, insane marriage to everybody and to the voracious society gossips. And slowly, terrifyingly, realizing that it’s simply impossible.
With a smooth, deliberate motion that brooks no argument, he takes my phone from my nerveless fingers to dictate my passport information to the registrar.
And I just stand there. Mute. Motionless. Like a bird with no legs, no wings, no fucking clue how it’s still upright. It’s a good thing Mykola is beside me. Solid. Warm. Real.
He nods at the right times, listens intently to the registrar’s gentle instructions, remembers everything. Usually, that’s my role when I’m around other people. The organized one. The one who pays attention to the details. Tonight, I’m just… adrift.
He slips the simple gold band onto my finger. His touch is swift, decisive.
My own fingers refuse to cooperate when it’s my turn, fumbling with the slightly larger ring, my skin rubbing awkwardly against his knuckles. It’s on. We’re… ringed.
Time in this strange, velvet-lined room feels like a vacuum. The only thing in sharp focus is Frez’s face. Everything else – the registrar, the ornate furnishings, the muffled sounds of the city outside – fades into a hazy, indistinct blur. The artificial lighting in here is disgustingly, unflatteringly yellow, casting strange shadows on his features. But I’ve never looked at Mykola this closely before. Not really. His light brown stubble, the five-o’clock shadow that always looks artfully rugged on him, is surprisingly coarse to the touch when his cheek brushes mine. One of his eyes, the left one, seems infinitesimally stricter, more analytical, than the right.
