Page 70 of Charmingly Obsessed
I don’t know where this sudden, ravenous appetite came from – the sex, the emotional upheaval, the sheer relief – but the food settles in my stomach like a comforting anchor.
I start avoiding my husband’s intense, unwavering gaze though. Because it’s suddenly, abundantly clear that he’s not obsessed with me. He’s obsessed with every single bite of greasy, cheesy, pepperoni-laden pizza that goes into my mouth. He’s watching me eat with a focused, almost predatory intensity that’s both unnerving and incredibly hot.
“Stop it.” I whisper finally, pushing the empty pizza box away. I move the stack of paper napkins to another spot on the low coffee table, needing to break the spell.
He looks like he’s about to say something important, but then he changes his mind. A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face.
“What were you going to say?”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, inserting a straw into my now-empty milkshake cup. I pretend to search for a non-existent last drop.
“Something smart. And supposedly beautiful. Poetic, even. But you, my dear wife, are impossible to seduce with mere words. You get so flustered. So adorably embarrassed.” He sighs dramatically. “And I don’t want this to stop. Ever.”
“I’m not always embarrassed.” I protest, though my cheeks are probably flaming again. “I just… I can’t always express an emotion exactly. Directly. The way it feels inside.”
“Many artists become artists precisely for that reason, Diana. To find a way to express the things that simple words can’t touch. You still have very expressive eyes, you know.”
“You don’t know how expressive they are. You can’t possibly know how many emotions I go through in a single minute, and then try to compare that to what little actually shows on the outside.”
“I’d like to know, though. One day. I’d like to know all of it.” He looks up at me then, his expression suddenly serious, vulnerable. “You drive me crazy. In all the best and worst possible ways. I’d like to find words for this, for us, that aren’t ripped straight from some cheesy, over-the-top melodrama.”
I can’t help but smile. Then laugh. Especially when he dramatically clutches his chest, feigning a heart attack.
“She’s laughing. She’s laughing, and I…”
“Kolya,” I interrupt gently, a genuine smile spreading across my face, “your heart’s not on that side.”
“Ah.” He blinks, then grins. “I now have two, apparently. One for the modest, talented artist. And the other, much largerand significantly more problematic one, for my passionate, insatiable little thief.”
“I want to know too,” I say, my voice suddenly serious, quiet. “About you. The real you. All of it. Even though you always say it doesn’t matter.”
His gaze fixes on me, sharp, focused, fully present.
It’s like he’s calculating something again, weighing options, assessing risks. Then, just as quickly, it fades.
The intensity recedes.
And it’s as if that tense, vulnerable moment never happened.
26
Chapter 26 Diana
When we return to the subject of mocking my new violently pink wardrobe, I take out my phone.
I show him the list of Parisian curators we can approach to get close to Royce. And the meticulously compiled list of items I’ll need to convincingly embody the role of Mykola Frez’s sophisticated, art-loving new wife in Paris. Designer dresses. Understated jewelry. The right shoes. The right bag.
I’ve also prepared a preliminary draft of our “legend” – how we met, our whirlwind romance, why the sudden wedding – so we’ll at least answer any intrusive questions the same way. Consistency is key in these matters.
It would be ridiculous if even a few key elements of my Parisian persona didn’t reflect my new, temporary, billionaire-adjacent status.
And Mykola Frez can certainly afford to splurge on a pair of Loro Piana loafers and a classic Chanel or Gucci handbag for his fake wife. It’s a business expense, after all.
But I didn’t expect him to study the lists so carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration. I search for the right words to explain my choices, to justify the expense, so I don’t come off as some kind of grasping, luxury-obsessed beggar. Personally, I think those ubiquitous quilted Chanel flap bags are a bit… outdated. But they scream “moneyed wife.”
“I’m looking for lingerie on this list.”
A knot forms in my chest. My mind immediately starts to race, to panic.
