Page 4 of Cruel Obsession

Her eyes narrow. Her lips thin.

And the air in the room gets colder.

Focus, Mirabel.

Finish the ceremony.

I keep talking, powering through the script, but the dress feels tighter with every word. The silk digs into my ribs, pulling taut across my breasts, and I can feel the seam straining with each breath.

Please.

Not now.

“…bound together in love and in faith—”

The fabric splits.

A soft, quietrip, barely audible over my own voice.

But I feel it.

Shit!

The seam at the neckline gives, and cool air hits my skin. My left breast pushes free, lush flesh bulging over the neckline.

Time stops.

Fire crawls up my neck and spreads across my face. I freeze mid-sentence, my mouth still open, the words dying in my throat.

Arkady’s gaze flicks down—just once—and something flashes in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or amusement. Then his expression goes blank.

Rosanna’s face, on the other hand, is pure venom. She’s staring at my chest, her lips curling into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so sharp.

The stone-faced man by the wall shifts his weight. Another guest coughs.

Move, Mirabel.

Do something.

“I-I… Excuse me,” I stammer, pressing my notes flat against my chest. “One moment.”

I spin on my heel and walk—fast, but not running—out of the room. I get to my office and look frantically around the room, looking for something—anything—that might help right now, and seeing nothing; no jacket, no jersey, nothing to cover my ripped dress. I empty my purse onto the seat of my chair, praying I packed something, but no luck. By the time I turn to my desk, my hands are shaking so hard I can barely open my drawer.

Come on, come on, come on!

I tear through the contents, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Pens scatter. A stapler clatters to the floor. My fingers close around soft fabric—a red silk scarf I’d forgotten I had, shoved in the back of the drawer months ago. I yank it out and drape it around my shoulders, pulling it tight across my chest. The scarf covers the torn neckline. Barely.

Good enough.

I smooth my hair back, adjust the edges of the fabric, and walk back out.

When I step into the Gold Room again, the tension has doubled. Tripled. Arkady and Rosanna are standing inches apart, but they might as well be on opposite sides of a canyon. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw locked tight. She’s turned slightly away from him, her shoulders rigid.

They’ve been fighting again.

The guests are silent. Watching. One of the men along the wall—older, silver-haired, with a face like carved granite—is leaning forward slightly, his eyes fixed on Arkady.

I take my place at the altar and pick up where I left off.