Page 29 of Cruel Obsession

My skin feels too tight, as if I’m burning from the inside out. I loosen my tie, unbutton my collar, trying to ease the constriction in my chest that has nothing to do with my clothes and everything to do with her.

If I reject her now, I’ll never know. Never know if the connection is real. Never know if she feels this same inexplicable pull.

I close her social media profile and open a new search window. Dig deeper. Medical records. School transcripts. Employment history. Bank statements. Credit score.

If she’s hiding something, I’ll find it.

Hours pass in a blur of screens and searches. The coffee goes from cold to forgotten. Outside, the city sleeps, but I don’t.

By the time dawn breaks, I know Mirabel McLeod better… I know she has no connections to the Bratva. No suspicious gaps in her history. Nothing that suggests she’s anything other than what she appears: a woman looking for a well-paying job.

Which means either she has no idea who I am, no idea what my family does…

Or she’s the best fucking actress on the planet.

Either way, I want her in my house. Under my roof. Where I can watch her. Study her. Get this bullshit out of my system.

I close the laptop. Roll my shoulders. My body aches from sitting too long, muscles protesting as I stand. But my mind is sharp. Focused. Certain.

I check my phone. Three missed calls from Yanis. A dozen messages from Stefan. The world keeps spinning while I’ve been lost in her.

I ignore them all.

Mirabel McLeod is coming to Ashwater Heights.

And one way or another, I’m going to find out exactly why fate keeps pushing her into my path.

Chapter Eight

Mirabel

I stare at my wardrobe, a hollow feeling spreading through my chest.

The interview is in three hours and nothing fits right. I’ve gained weight since Dad’s diagnosis—stress eating takeout during late nights researching treatments I can’t afford.

The black dress from the wedding disaster hangs at the far end of my closet, mocking me. The tear has been mended with tiny, careful stitches, but I know it’s still too tight. And even if it weren’t, I can’t wear it without seeing his face in my mind—those ice-blue eyes flicking down for just a moment when the fabric split.

“Fuck,” I whisper to the empty room.

I pull out a white blouse and a black pencil skirt I wore to my college graduation. The skirt zips, but just barely, digging into my waist. The blouse strains across my chest, a button threatening to pop. It’ll have to do.

My phone buzzes with a text from Diane:Break a leg today. That castle better have gold-plated toilets for 5k a month.

I text back quickly:If it doesn’t, I’ll scrub them until they shine like gold anyway.

She sends back a laughing emoji, and I fight down a twist of anxiety. Diane’s the only one I’ve told about this job prospect. The fear of jinxing this opportunity has kept my mouth shut. Five thousand dollars a month. The difference between watching my father die and giving him a fighting chance.

I pull my hair back into a tight bun and apply makeup with care. Foundation to hide the shadows under my eyes.Concealer over the spots that have appeared since sleep became a luxury. Blush to fake the appearance of health. Mascara. Lip gloss.

The results are passable, but not great. I feel like crap; not surprisingly that I look the same way. I turn away from my reflection. No time to dwell on that now.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a reminder from my calendar:Dad - Chemo - Tomorrow 9 a.m.

Another wave of panic threatens to pull me under. If I get this job, I’ll need to move into Ashwater Heights. I’ll be two hours away from him. Who will drive him to appointments? Who will sit with him after, when the nausea hits?

One problem at a time, Mirabel.

The taxi I ordered arrives fifteen minutes early, the driver texting that he’s downstairs. I grab my purse, a folder with extra copies of my CV, and the silk scarf from the wedding—just in case I need to camouflage the straining buttons on my blouse.