Page 86 of Charmingly Obsessed
Most of the people around us are foreigners – wealthy American tourists, a contingent of Japanese collectors, a couple of loud Brazilians withreallygood tastes. So, at least, we don’t feel the full, crushing weight of that uniquely Parisian air of condescending, intellectual superiority.
Mykola, for his part, idly, almost possessively, plays with my simple gold wedding band, even though my hand is hanging limply at my side. His fingers find mine, lacing through them,his thumb stroking the ring, over and over. A silent, public declaration.
I suggest he try one of the delicate, slightly pretentious-looking canapés – a single, perfect, glistening grape skewered with a sliver of aged Gruyère – and he somehow, with a devastatingly charming, utterly infuriating maneuver, turns the situation so that I end up feeding it to him. By hand. Right in the middle of the crowded, buzzing gallery. In front of everyone. He’s utterly, completely, insufferably infuriating. A devious, manipulative, ridiculously handsome bastard.
After that, I avoid looking anyone directly in the eye, glancing only sideways, my cheeks flaming. And he… he just keeps nuzzling my cheekbones, my temples, with his nose, his lips brushing against my skin, murmuring wicked, inappropriate, and frankly, hilarious things in my ear.
We manage to catch Veniamin just before the gallery officially closes for the evening, to discuss the all-important senior curator contact.
He assures me, a little too quickly, a little too nervously, that he has already made the call on my behalf, and that tomorrow, I should reach out directly to a woman named Orsana, and try to arrange an in-person meeting first. Before mentioning Mykola’s name.
My mood lifts instantly. We didn’t come here for nothing!
It worked! My ridiculous, over-the-top dress, my newfound confidence, my… status as Mrs. Frez… it all worked! Even if my beautiful, ridiculously expensive, and wildly uncomfortable new shoes are currently trying to amputate my feet.
Back in our suite, I examine the delicate, stiletto heels of my new Louboutins. Damn it. Three minutes, three, on those lava-hardened, unforgiving French cobblestones outside the gallery, and goodbye, flawless, iconic red-lacquered soles. Ruined.
I crawl onto the enormous, inviting bed, pushing my narrow, restrictive black skirt of my dress up to my thighs, and sprawl out, exhausted but triumphant, to check tomorrow’s meticulously planned, color-coded schedule.
“So,” a low, dangerously quiet voice says from across the room, “he’s completely, utterly, head-over-heels in love with you.”
Frez is standing by the unlit, marble fireplace, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his impeccably tailored trousers, his legs casually, elegantly crossed at the ankle.
I look at him, a sudden, cold unease prickling my skin. He’s playing at being relaxed. But he’s not. He’s… coiled. Tense. Like a predator waiting to strike.
Who exactly is “he”? And why am I, as always, the last to know what the hell is going on in my own goddamn life?
“Mykola,” I try to keep my voice light, my eyebrows from arching into my hairline, “what in the world are you talking about now?”
He just keeps staring at me, his expression unreadable, his fingers moving, twitching, over something small and hard in his pocket. The only part of him that moves.
“You’re completely blind, Diana,” Frez murmurs, his voice barely audible, laced with a strange, almost bitter amusement. “Utterly. Almost… pathologically so. Beyond all reason.”
“Who are you talking about, Mykola?” I demand, my patience finally snapping.
“The art consultant,” he spits the words out suddenly, his voice sharp now, unrestrained. “The one we just visited. Veniamin. The one who’s so obviously, so pathetically, in love with you he can barely fucking speak in your presence. Like some kind of…”
“Venya?” I echo, my voice filled with genuine, skeptical disbelief. “What on earth makes you think that? I’ve knownVenya for ten years. He’s practically a brother to me. And besides, look, he didn’t even come over to us a second time all evening.”
“He didn’t come over,” he laughs, a cold, harsh, humorless sound, “because your brand-new, extremely jealous, and notoriously possessive husband never left your goddamn side, Diana. Not once. Not for a second. You… you can’t possibly be this oblivious. No one is this oblivious.”
“You mean… dumb, right?” I say, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. “That’s what you really mean, isn’t it?” I nod slowly to myself, a familiar, bitter wave of self-deprecation washing over me. I reach for the bottle of complimentary Evian water on the nightstand.
“What?” He almost whispers the word, his voice filled with a sudden, shocked indignation. “I… Not at all. I didn’t mean that. You’re… you’re phenomenally, almost supernaturally, unaware of how other people, how men, feel about you. He’s smitten, Diana. Like a goddamn schoolboy. Like…”
“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating, Mykola? Just a little?”
“Oh, I always exaggerate, Diana. It’s part of my charm. Except,” his voice drops, becomes a low, serious rumble, “when it comes to you. With you… I have to downplay everything. Constantly. Otherwise, I…” He stops himself, his jaw tightening.
He pushes off from the cold marble of the fireplace, taking just one, single, deliberate step towards the bed. His hands are still buried deep in his pockets.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice flat, dismissive. “I’m your husband now. And you… you became my wife.” His foot, clad in an impeccably polished, ridiculously expensive leather shoe, twitches slightly. Just once. Like he’s rocking it in place, trying to discharge some of the restless, coiled energy thrumming through him.
I set my glass of water back down on the nightstand with a hand that’s not quite steady.
“Mykola, you’re confusing me.” My voice is a whisper. “Maybe… maybe he likes me. A little. As a friend. And yes, of course, I became your wife. I don’t think… I don’t think it could have gone any other way. Not really.”
I feel embarrassed by how brightly, how hopefully, I smile at him then.
