Page 82 of Charmingly Obsessed
That’s when we all realized, with a collective, dawning sense of awe and disbelief, that even multi-billionaires, apparently, find some things too costly.
Mykola introduces me to the two pilots – Captain handsome and Co-captain even more handsome – like we’re all about to embark on a fun, extended family vacation together. Apparently, that’s how it should be. The Frez way. So, I try. I offer a polite, slightly strained smile and murmur a vague, hopefully appropriate greeting.
Inside the jet, which is less a private plane and more a flying five-star hotel suite, he shows me everything. Explaining each luxurious, custom-designed detail with a boyish, almost infectious enthusiasm. Turns out, he actually likes planes. Flying. The mechanics of it all. Meanwhile, I’m just mentally checking, for the tenth time, whether I remembered to pack all my necessary documents. Passport. Visa. Marriage certificate (still can’t believe that’s real). The Royce dossier.
Then, just to be absolutely, positively sure, I lay them all out neatly on the polished mahogany table in the main cabin area, for easy access.
Mykola had mentioned, rather casually, that someone – from immigration, or customs, or perhaps his own ever-vigilant security team – could come right here, into the cabin, to checkour papers, since we hadn’t gone through any kind of formal security check or passport control at the private airfield.
But no one comes.
I stare, stunned, at the closed cabin door. What about my documents? My meticulously organized, cross-referenced, color-coded documents?
“They decided you don’t look like a terrorist, sunshine,” Frez says, his lips brushing against my hair as he leans over my shoulder, ostensibly showing me how to connect my new, encrypted, Frez-Enterprises-issued phone to the plane’s private, high-speed satellite internet. His hand lingers on my waist.
“They rarely check my passengers,” he explains, a faint frown creasing his brow as he straightens up. “I told them you’re my wife. It’s usually me asking them to check someone. Discreetly, of course. When… well, sometimes, new, unexpected people show up in my orbit. I move them here or there, from one continent to another, without necessarily running them through the official security gauntlet right away. And sometimes,” his voice hardens almost imperceptibly, “those people… they think they can learn something about me. Gather intel. Exploit a perceived weakness.” He exhales, a short, sharp, frustrated sound. “That happens a lot. Especially before big deals. Like Royce.”
Mykola gets up then, heading towards the small, ridiculously well-equipped galley kitchen at the front of the cabin, to make my favourite tea with lemon.
I stare out the oversized, oval window, feeling like the pale, endless, featureless abyss beyond the thick, reinforced glass isn’t just the sky at thirty thousand feet. It’s something inside me, too. A vast, echoing emptiness.
I haven’t done anything wrong. Not really.
But I was one of those people once. One of those “new, unexpected people” in his orbit.
Because I didn’t come to work as a humble, aspiring designer in his private family office three years ago.
I came to gather intelligence.
On the brilliant, enigmatic, ruthless billionaire Mykola Frez. For Kozar. For Malasenco.For them.
And I failed. Spectacularly. On the very first goddamn day.
Because I fell in love with him.
Instantly. Irrevocably. Hopelessly.
32
Chapter 32 Diana
Hôtel de la Couronne, a bastion of old-world Parisian opulence, greets us with a hushed,dimelegance.Very dim.It’s that particular brand of morning laziness perfected by the French, a languid, almost decadent calm before the real excitement begins in the evening. That’s when they turn on all the glittering chandeliers, presumably for the benefit of the impeccably uniformed staff.
Check-in, naturally, doesn’t happen in the plebeian lobby.
It happens right here, in our sprawling, ridiculously opulent suite, and it involves a small, efficient army of people – the hotel general manager, a guest relations specialist, a private butler, and two very serious-looking men in dark suits who are probably part of Frez’s international security detail.
Judging by the faint, almost imperceptible tightening of Mykola’s jaw, this level of commotion is unusual, even for him.
His belongings, I notice, are already unpacked, his bespoke suits and crisp shirts hanging in a perfect, color-coordinated row in one of the enormous walk-in closets.
Mine, a single, battered suitcase filled with a motley collection of sensible basics and one ridiculously expensive black dress, I’ll handle myself.
Mykola, after a brief, whispered conversation with one of the security guys, needs to step out for a while. A pre-arranged, off-the-books meeting, I suspect. Fine by me. I plan to make good use of my time before our own scheduled outing this evening. We’re heading to a trendy, avant-garde gallery in Le Marais, the Fifth Gallery, where an old acquaintance of mine now works as a junior art consultant. He’ll be our link, our inside track, to the senior curator at one of the key Parisian art centers Royce is known to frequent. Our Trojan horse.
I quickly put together a short, strategic list of paintings we should aim to publicly acquire over the next few days. For appearance’s sake. Nothing too flashy, nothing too obscure. The kind of solid, respectable acquisitions a serious, established collector would make.
Then I call the auction house, introducing myself as Mrs. Frez – the name still feels strange, foreign, on my tongue – to express my husband’s keen interest in an upcoming, exclusive, invitation-only auction. Royce doesn’t have it on his official, publicly available schedule yet, but I know, from my own research, from my own deep dive into his collecting habits, that he’ll definitely be invited. And he won’t decline. It features a rare, early work by an artist he’s been chasing for years.
