Page 26 of Cruel Obsession

Hope.

Fragile and terrifying and so desperate it makes my chest ache.

Please let this work.

Please.

I close my eyes and will sleep to come.

It doesn’t.

Chapter Seven

Arkady

I rub my eyes, staring at the screen until the words blur together.

Twenty CVs today. Twenty people who want to work in my house, and not a single one feels right.

The last rays of sunlight stretch across my desk. Outside, the garden is turning purple with dusk. I’ve been sitting here for over two hours straight, reading profiles of housekeepers with perfect references and years of experience working for families who probably don’t have blood on their hands.

“Khren,” I mutter, rolling my neck until something pops.

Stefan brought coffee an hour ago. It sits untouched, gone cold beside my laptop. I should stop. Should delegate this whole fucking process to someone else. But I can’t.

Whoever works in my home needs to be vetted personally. By me. I won’t have anyone in Ashwater Heights who might report back to my father. Or worse—to Sergei Tulikov.

I check my watch. Almost midnight. One more CV, then I’ll call it.

The inbox refreshes. A new application sits at the top, sent thirty minutes ago.

Mirabel McLeod.

Something about the name tugs at me. I open it, expecting another sterile list of qualifications, another professional photo of someone who looks like they’ve never made a mistake in their life.

Instead, I findher.

The registrar.

My hand freezes over the trackpad. Blood rushes to my groin so fast I have to shift in my seat. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.

It’s her—standing against a plain wall, hair pulled back, wearing a blouse that’s too formal for a selfie. She’s smiling in a careful, measured way, but I can still see it—that same intensity from the wedding. That same quiet strength.

“Mirabel McLeod,” I say the name aloud, testing it. It fits her.

Heat spreads from my chest to my neck. I drag a hand across my mouth, surprised to find my lips dry, my pulse hammering against my fingertips. This visceral reaction to just a fucking photograph—it’s pathetic. Dangerous.

I lean closer, staring at her face on the screen. She looks different with her hair up, different without the panic in her eyes when her dress split. But unmistakably her.

The door to my office opens without a knock. Mikhail steps in, tablet in hand.

“The surveillance report from—”

“Did I ask for you?” My voice cuts like ice.

He stops mid-stride, eyes widening. “No, but you requested—”

“Get out.”