Page 38 of Cruel Obsession

“That’s… that’s good, darling. I’m glad for you,” he says.

He’s not glad. Neither am I. But there’s just no other option right now.

“That’s not why I’m here.” My fingers shake as I unzip my purse. “I have something. For your treatment.”

I place the stack on the table. Ten thousand dollars. It hits the wood with a weighty thwack.

Dad goes utterly still. “Mirabel. What have you done?”

“It’s a loan,” I say quickly. “My employer’s fronting it against my salary.”

“Your employer?” His voice sharpens.

“He’s really wealthy. You should see his estate.” It’s not actually an answer, but how do you tell your dad you think you just made a deal with the devil to pay for his chemo?

Dad’s eyes narrow to slits. “And this man just happened to offer exactly what you need?”

“I told him about your cancer. Our situation.” The words sound feeble even to me.

“Mirabel—”

“Don’t.” The word slices between us. “I made this choice. For you. Us.”

“By selling yourself to a stranger?” His voice cracks. “By disappearing where I can’t protect you?”

“You need this money to live!” Something hot and jagged tears through my chest. “And I don’t need protection.”

“Everyone needs protection from certain people.” He pushes the money away like it’s contaminated. “What kind of man hands out ten thousand dollars to a woman he just met on a job interview?”

The kind who looks at you like he’s memorizing the hollow of your throat. The kind who radiates danger even in his sleep. The kind who makes promises with his mouth and threats with his eyes.

“A man who can afford it,” I say instead. “It’s a loan, Dad. Not a gift.”

“What interest is he charging?” His voice scrapes lower. “What’s the real price, Mirabel?”

“There’s no price! He’s my employer. I’m his housekeeper.”

“Housekeeper.” He shapes the word like I’ve told him I’m becoming an assassin. “At some remote estate. For a man who throws money around like confetti.”

I stand, frustration and anxiety and determination knotting together in my stomach. “This is happening, Dad. I’m taking this job. And you’re taking this money.” I push the stack toward him. “Because I will not watch you die when I have a way to save you.”

Something in my voice reaches him. His shoulders collapse, defeat carving deeper lines around his mouth.

“What if it fails?” he whispers, voice threadbare. “What if the treatment doesn’t work, and you’ve… tied yourself to this man for nothing?”

The question steals my breath. I see it in vivid, terrible clarity—Dad gone, me alone in that massive house, trapped by a debt I can never repay with money.

“Then at least we fought,” I say finally. “Better than surrender.”

His face crumples. Two steps and I’m around the table, arms wrapped around shoulders that feel like a birdcage with too many broken slats.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against my collarbone. “I should be taking care of you.”

“That’s not how it works, Dad.” I press my face against his hair. “We’re all we have left.”

He clutches the back of my shirt like he’s drowning, and I let him. The money sits on the table—salvation and damnation in equal measure.

“I’ll call every day,” I promise as I’m leaving. “And I’ll drive you to treatment before I go.”