Page 2 of Cruel Obsession

The question is so blunt it even takes my breath away.

“Of course it is!” Rosanna’s voice cracks, sharp and wounded. “I didn’t plan this, Arkady. It just happened, and I’m not killing my child because you’re an asshole!”

Something crashes. A glass, maybe. Or a chair.

My pulse races, throbbing in my temples.

“I never told you to get rid of it,” comes the sharp reply. “But I don’t see how this could fucking happen.Chert voz’mi!”

“I think you know exactly how it could happen, Arkady. But that’s not the point. If we could just discuss—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Arkady says, and his voice has gone cold. Flat. “Aside from the fact that I don’t fucking believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe,” Rosanna shoots back. “It’s your baby. End of story. I don’t want much from you—”

“That isnothow it works, woman.” There’s an exasperated huff. “I’ll accept my responsibilities if this is true. But I’m not doing anything without a DNA test.”

“Fine.” From the tension in her tone, I can tell she’s gritting her teeth. “We’ll do whatever you damn well want. Later. But right now, we can’t ruin this ceremony.”

There’s more cursing and heavy footfalls. I can imagine him stalking around the room.

I pull back from the wall, my breath coming too fast. My fingers are trembling. The last time I couldn’t stop myself from listening—pressed against the door of a hospital waiting room while my mother’s oncologist spoke in low, careful tones—I learned my parents had been lying to me for months. Stage four. Six months, maybe less. Everything I thought I knew hadcrumbled, and I’d stood there in the hallway with my hand over my mouth, trying not to scream.

Some doors should stay closed.

But I’ve never been good at walking away.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the words still rattling around in my skull, and turn back to the dress.

That poor woman. What a dick.

It’s none of your business, Mirabel.

Do your job.

Get paid.

Go home.

I step into the silk and shimmy it up over my hips. The fabric slides cool and smooth against my skin, and I reach back to pull the zipper—

It sticks.

I tug harder. The zipper inches up, then stops just below my shoulder blades. I glance down at myself. The dress clings to my body like a second skin, the neckline straining across my chest. I’ve put on weight since I bought it—not much, but enough that the silk pulls tight over my breasts, digging into the soft flesh.

Shit.

I try tugging the fabric higher, but it doesn’t budge. My breasts press against the silk, threatening to spill over the low-cut neckline with every breath. The ceremony starts in eight minutes.

It’ll be fine.

Just don’t move too much.

Keep your arms down.

Smile.

I smooth my hands over the front of the dress, force my shoulders back, and step into the hallway. The Gold Room is all cream walls and polished parquet, soft lighting that makeseverything look like an oil painting. White roses line the aisle, their scent so heavy it’s almost cloying.