Page 64 of Charmingly Obsessed
Well, fine.
If fate—in all its twisted wisdom—demands I confront my lying, manipulative, and ridiculously handsome billionaire husband while wearing a bedazzled muumuu, then so be it.
The only thing even remotely suitable—meaning it has sleeves that don’t dangle past my knees—is a violently pink faux-fur jacket. It’s covered in plastic rhinestones and has deep, plush, velvet-lined pockets.
It’s hideous.
It’s perfect.
The two immaculately coiffed saleswomen exchange bewildered, pitying glances. My torn designer trench coat—even in its current state of disrepair—is objectively stylish, tailored perfectly to my frame. I never wear anything else.
But whatever. What do they know?
I’m bewilderedtoo. By everything that’s happening right now!
Madlyobsessed.
How could he? How could he do something so vile? So manipulative? So… public?
Lately, I’ve had ridiculous—almost unbelievable—luck with taxi drivers.
This one is a grizzled, seen-it-all veteran with a toothpick jutting from the corner of his mouth. He peels out from the curb like he’s auditioning for the next Fast & Furious movie.
He barely acknowledges traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, or basic road laws.
He just grunts, “Where to, lady?” and floors it.
That’s right. I need to see one particular financial genius this very second.
Oh please,a genius. A goddamn evil genius of torment. And lies.
Everyone’s a goddamn comedian tonight.
The driver shoots a quick, assessing glance at my furious expression and my violently pink, rhinestone-encrusted jacket. For some inexplicable reason, he then asks—cautiously—if he should perhaps be taking me to a maternity hospital.
“You look… like you’re about to pop, lady,” he says around the toothpick still in his mouth.
I’m breathing like a damn freight train about to derail, because I’m holding back a flood of words. Words that are clawing at the back of my throat, desperate to escape. Sharp words. Angry words. Hurt words.
By the time I step out of the taxi in front of Frez’s opulent, minimalist skyscraper and into the private, high-speed elevator that whisks me directly to his penthouse, my breathing has turned shallow, rapid, painful.
I press my finger to the biometric scanner beside his reinforced front door without hesitation. The system, now programmed with my print, grants me instant access.
I can’t think anymore. And I don’t want to.
I kick off my ankle boots at the threshold, not caring where they land.
This cursed, hideous pink jacket – it’s like trying to escape from a badly designed, overly fluffyparachute. I wrestle it off, but it’s pointless.
The sadist himself—my brand-new, lying, manipulative husband—emerges from the hallway leading to the master suite.
I’ve just stopped, breathless and shaking, near the monolithic stone island in his state-of-the-art kitchen. And there he is.
He’s wearing soft, faded jeans that cling to his lean hips and a simple, dark grey t-shirt that stretches across his broad chest. His hair is damp, artfully tousled. He looks… relaxed. Domestic. Devastatingly handsome. And utterly oblivious to the storm he’s unleashed.
“Diana! What hap—”
“What happened?” My voice is a strangled shriek. “What happened?! You… you arrogant, manipulative, silver-tongued bastard! There are boundaries, Frez! Rules! Limits! Common decency! I didn’t sign up for this!”
