Page 37 of Cruel Obsession

He stares at me for several seconds, hatred burning in his eyes. Then he nods to his men and stalks toward the door.

But he can’t resist a parting shot.

“You’ll regret crossing the Tulikov family, Arkady,” he spits. “Mark my words.”

The door slams behind him.

I stand there, adrenaline still surging through my veins, aware that I’ve just accelerated a war that was already brewing.

Chapter Eleven

Mirabel

The stack of bills burns against my skin through my purse, a weight dragging me down with each step.

Ten thousand dollars. Blood money.

I can practically smell it—metallic and forbidden—as the cab weaves through traffic toward Dad’s house.

I watch the city blur past the window, counting intersections. Five more to Dad. Four. Three. Each number brings me closer to a conversation I’ve been rehearsing since I walked out of Arkady Laurov’s office with his money pressed against my palm, his eyes still imprinted on my skin.

The car stops. Dad’s garden sprawls in neglect—weeds strangling what once bloomed under Mom’s care. I pay the driver, the bills feeling dirty beneath my fingers. Stolen. Or worse—bought with something I don’t fully understand yet.

Dad opens the door on my third knock, his frame silhouetted against the hallway light. The cancer has hollowed him out. Left scaffolding where a man once stood.

“Mirabel?” Surprise pulls at his features. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”

“We need to talk.” I shift awkwardly on the doorstep. “Can I come in?”

His face contracts, the same expression from when I was eight and he told me Mom wasn’t coming home from the hospital. He steps back, creating space for me to enter a house that smells of medication and dust. Things are worse than he wants me to know.

More pill bottles line the counter than before. The kitchen light catches them, throwing shadows that look liketiny gravestones across the counter. Dad’s hands tremble as he reaches for the kettle.

“I’ll do that, Dad.” I guide him to a chair. “Sit.”

He lets me, which terrifies me more than the weight loss or the hollow eyes. Peter McLeod never surrenders control—not since Mom died, not even when he’s drowning.

“What’s this about?” he asks as I set a steaming mug before him. “You look… troubled.”

I pull air into lungs that feel too small. “I got a new job.”

“That’s… good?” His voice lifts with uncertainty.

“It’s a live-in position. I’ll be a housekeeper.” The words tumble out, gathering speed. “Five thousand a month, Dad.”

His fingers tighten around the mug. “Five—” He stares. “That’s more than double your current salary.”

“I know.”

“What’s the catch?”

Dad always sees the teeth in the gift horse’s mouth. Always knows when the bait conceals a hook.

“I start Monday. The estate’s two hours from the city.”

Understanding collapses his expression. “You’ll be living there. Away.”

“Away from you,” I finish, the words sticking like tar to my tongue. “Yes.”