Page 76 of Charmingly Obsessed
“All right, my darling, all right.”
She gently pries the crumpled blue dress from my numb fingers. She puts on another pair of her enormous, jewel-encrusted glasses and grips her sleek, modern smartphone, her thumb hovering over the call button.
“I’m calling that… that… what’s his name again? Your husband. Aha, that Kolya Frez.”
But I grab her hands, my own surprisingly strong. “No!” I gasp, the words tumbling out in a rush, faster than I’ve ever spoken in my entire life. “No, Serafima Pylypivna, please,no! I beg you, don’t tell him! Don’t call him! It’s… it’s a misunderstanding! A mistake! I got confused! I mixed things up! It’s not what it looks like!”
I don’t even notice when she stands up, towering over me, her presence suddenly formidable, almost regal.
Her old but surprisingly strong hands cup my face, tilting it upwards, forcing me to look into her dark blue, almost black eyes.
Shadows flicker in their depths, scattering in different directions – maybe just reflections of the flashing neon car headlights from the busy street outside, slicing through the courtyard.
Serafima Pylypivna studies me, her gaze intense. Like a queen judging the guilt or innocence, the loyalty or treachery, of a kneeling, supplicant subject.
Then, her gaze softens slightly. Takes on its usual wry, knowing amusement.
“All right, little rose,” she says finally, gently guiding me towards the chair, finally succeeding in making me sit. “We all get confused sometimes, my dear. Especially when matters of the heart… and other, less mentionable organs… are involved.”
With a heavy, weary sigh, she pours me a generous dose ofCorvalol– a potent, old-fashioned Ukrainian heart medication that smells like Valerian root. And then, she pours one for herself.
Then, she makes me clink glasses with her. A silent, solemn toast. To what, I have no idea. Survival, perhaps.
Of course, I won’t tell Mykola anything about this now. Not a word. Kozar, or whoever sent this monstrous, cruel “gift,” understands everything. He knows how to wound. How to terrify.
But what Kozar, and his shadowy associates like Malasenco, don’t understand… what they can’t possibly comprehend…
…is that I love Mykola Frez. With a fierceness, a desperation, a totality that scares the absolute hell out of me.
If they’re setting up a blackmail, if they think they can use me, use Anya, to hurt him, to control him… they’re in for a very nasty surprise. Pain is inevitable in this game. I know that now. But I’ll minimize the damage for Frez. I’ll protect him. Whatever it takes. Their twisted plan, whatever it is, won’t work. Not if I can help it.
I can expect anything from them now. Anything. And this dress… Anya’s dress…
It looks like a warning.
A threat.
29
Chapter 29 Diana
Thank God, Hippolyt arrives without flowers. That is a small mercy in this increasingly surreal evening.
I try to take in his appearance, to paste on a polite, welcoming smile that doesn’t feel like a rictus of sheer terror. Hippolyte is… a type. Definitely a dedicated gym-goer, and clearly proud of the results, judging by the way his trendy, form-fitting turtleneck clings to every defined pectoral and bulging bicep.
And that haircut – the meticulously sculpted, slightly aggressive style that every barber seems to be recommending to every man under forty these days. Standard Issue Hot Guy.
But his eyes, I’ll give him that, are a warm, unintrusive shade of cognac. And he even manages to look a little shy, a little endearingly awkward, when Serafima Pylypivna, in full matchmaking battle-armour, halts his alpha-male stride at theliving room entrance, determined to regale forgetful,ungrateful mewith a detailed, fifteen-minute PowerPoint presentation (verbal, thankfully) on his many stellar achievements: his successful career in… something vaguely real estate, his glorious victory in a regional high school academic decathlon sometime during the Mesozoic Era, and the truly astonishing fact that he was once, apparently, invited to audition for a low-budget, independent film about… Spartans.
Clearly, a man of hidden depths. And questionable taste in turtlenecks.
When Nadya from Apartment 15 finally arrives – a whirlwind of vibrant energy, her flame-gold hair already adorned with a ridiculously festive tinsel crown, despite it being late October – I’m already at a certain…stage.
Thestagewhere the Corvalol Serafima pressed on me earlier has kicked in, leaving me in a slightly buzzed, strangely detached state.
The sharp edges of anxiety have been mercifully dulled, replaced by a sort of hazy, floating calm. Corvalol has never, ever had this kind of… pleasant effect on me before. Usually, it just makes me want to take a very long nap. In a coffin.
Once we’ve all politely sampled Serafima’s Olivie salad, I’ll need to sneak off to the kitchen and surreptitiously check the label on that little brown bottle. Because I suspect my dear, meddling landlady might have… enhanced my usual dosage. With something a little more… festive.
