Page 83 of Charmingly Obsessed
The auction house, I have to admit, wasn’t exactly thrilled when I first stepped onto the scene as Mykola’s newly appointed, and largely unknown, collection manager a few weeks ago.
But now… now that I’m his wife, their tone is all fawning warmth and cloying courtesy. It’s amazing what a simple gold band and a multi-billion-dollar surname can do.
I went from anonymous art consultant to Mrs. Mykola Frez inthreeinsane, whirlwind days. They’ll probably be talking about it, whispering about it, for the nextthreeyears.
I sort through the stack of gilt-edged invitations Mykola’s office has already couriered over, cross-checking them against the ones I, through my own more modest channels, have managed to obtain.
I also, with a growing sense of surreal competence, reschedule and update Mykola’s business calls for the next forty-eight hours, according to the revised agenda I’ve created. Amanda, his indestructible New York-based assistant, advises me, via a secure, encrypted video call, on which high-stakes meetings are absolutely unavoidable, which can be safely skipped, and which might, with a bit of diplomatic finesse, be postponed.
“Jesus Christ Himself, in all His infinite wisdom and glory, sent you to me, Diana,” she groans dramatically, drumming her perfectly manicured, blood-red fingernails on the polished surface of her enormous desk, the Manhattan skyline glittering behind her. “No, scratch that. God Himself. I am in freaking heaven. Actual, honest-to-God, less-work-for-me heaven.”
I still need to double-check the after-party invitations for the gallery opening tonight, and then meticulously number my limited selection of clothes for scheduled dry cleaning on specific days – a necessity in this high-stakes, high-fashion world, apparently.
But on my way to the bedroom, my suitcase in tow, I spot a documentary playing on the enormous, wall-mounted television in the suite’s main salon.
Monkeys!
There’s some unusual, obscure nature channel on here, a channel I didn’t even know existed. I’m instantly captivated.
“Who would’ve thought,” a low, husky, ridiculously familiar voice whispers directly into my ear, making me jump, nearly spilling the complimentary plate of artisanal nuts I’d been nibbling on all over the pristine, cream-colored silk bedspread, “thatsnijynkihad such a pronounced and sophisticated love for monkeys?”
Jesus, he snuck up on me like a goddamn cat. A very large, very handsome, very disruptive panther. I didn’t even hear the suite door open, though the master bedroom is a considerable distance from the main entrance.
“Is it that fascinating?” he asks, an amused, teasing note in his voice.
“Not really,” I explain hastily, deciding, for some reason, not to elaborate on my long-standing, slightly obsessive fascination with primates. “But part of this particular expedition… it covers a specific, and very rare, species of macaque. And I… I always watch anything about monkeys.”
He watches the screen intently for a moment as the documentary shifts from the snow-covered mountains of Japan to a steamy, vibrant jungle scene. “The other segments aren’t just about them, you know,” I add, feeling the need to justify my strange viewing habits. “They’re about nature in general. Which is also… interesting.”
“Monkeys are easier to understand than people, right?” He glances down at me, his gaze sharp, perceptive, seeing far too much, as always.
“I just… observe them,” I say, a little too defensively. “That’s all. It’s just… a quirk. Where were you?” God, I sound like a nagging, controlling shrew of a wife. After less than few days of marriage. A new record, probably.
Mykola smiles, but it’s not as confident, not as easy, as his usual charming grins. His hand, which has been resting lightly on my shoulder, strokes down my arm, then his touch turns into a kiss.
A deep, uneven, soul-stealing kiss that tastes of cool autumn air and lingering want. We breathe into each other, eyes closed, and I follow his lead, surrendering to the familiar, intoxicating pull.
“I was in the country of Missing You,” he murmurs against my lips, the cheesy, ridiculously romantic line somehow sounding utterly, devastatingly sincere coming from him. It makes me smile, despite myself. “And I have something for you.”
I open the small, elegant, dark blue Boucheron box in a stunned, reverent silence.
Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, a large, pearlescent, irregularly shaped baroque pearl is encased in a delicate, impossibly intricate lattice of the finest white gold chainmail, which glistens with tiny, almost invisible diamond accents at the joints.
It’s an unusual, almost otherworldly piece. A beautiful, perfect, miniature cage for a flawed, imperfect pearl.
“Thank you, Mykola,” I manage, my voice a soft whisper as I turn the exquisite pendant over in my hands, the cool, heavy weight of it a surprising comfort. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”
“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice suddenly, surprisingly, hoarse. “Really?”
I lift my gaze to his. And I have never, ever seen such raw, naked uncertainty on his handsome, usually so-confident face.
If only I could put into words even a fraction of an ounce of the swirling, chaotic, overwhelming emotions simmering inside me right now.
If only I could find a few of the right words, for once in my goddamn life.
“I love it,” I nod, the words feeling small, inadequate, but blessedly, wonderfully true. I do. I love it.
The pendant is exquisite on its own, a masterpiece of craftsmanship. But it’s also… it’s perfectly, unnervingly suited for me.
