Page 43 of Cruel Obsession

“Yes.” Anfisa joins me at the window, something softening in her face. “I saw the place when Mr. Laurov was planning the gardens. He has always had such vision.”

Her voice carries an almost maternal note. It makes me wonder about their relationship, how this severe housekeeper came to speak of her employer with such tenderness.

“What’s he like?” The question slips out. “To work for, I mean.”

Anfisa turns to me, eyes suddenly sharp as she studies my face. “Mr. Laurov is… complex. Demanding. Precise. He values loyalty above all else.”

“I understand,” I respond.

“I don’t think you do,” Anfisa says. “Arkady Laurov is not an easy man. He controls what belongs to him. And while you live here, you belong to him.”

The words should repel me. Instead, they send a hot current straight to my core, lighting something I refuse to acknowledge.

“Belong to him.” My voice catches. “I’m sure you don’t mean that literally.”

She eyes me for a moment, her lips pressed together, not confirming my statement. “I have to warn you of something, Miss McLeod,” she eventually continues, voice dropping. “Something important.”

“What?” My own voice sounds distant to my ears.

“Do not, under any circumstances, develop feelings for Arkady.”

I blink in surprise. Heat floods my face.

“I- Why would you think—?”

“Because I see how you look when I say his name.” Her eyes hold mine, unflinching. “Your skin goes red. Your breathing changes. Small things, but I notice them.” She sighs. “Three years ago, a girl worked here. Natalya. Beautiful, smart, ambitious. She thought she could breach his walls. Thought she was different.”

She pauses, and I find myself leaning forward. “What happened to her?”

“She disappeared. Left in the middle of the night. No note, no explanation. Just… gone.” Anfisa’s expression darkens.

My throat tightens. “Are you saying he—?”

“I am saying she understood what was good for her and left.”

I think of the expression on Rosanna’s face the day he ditched her at the altar and wonder how many more hearts he’s left in his wake.

“I can look after myself,” I say firmly.

Anfisa doesn’t look convinced. “I am warning you. He is like a son to me. I have watched him suffer, watched him build defenses. I do not wish to see more young women dash themselves against those walls.”

The intimacy of her confession startles me. What suffering does she mean? What happened to Arkady Laurov that required such fortress-like protection?

“I’m here to do a job,” I say firmly. “Nothing more.”

“Good to see that you remember that.” She moves toward the door. “Dinner is at seven in the smaller dining room. You have an hour to settle in. Tomorrow we begin training at six sharp.”

The door closes behind her, leaving me alone in a room that suddenly feels too large, too luxurious, too much like a beautiful trap.

I sink into a plush armchair and stare around me, pulse hammering against my wrists. I should leave. Should grab my suitcases and run before I’m in too deep.

But where would I go? How would I pay for Dad’s treatment? The ten thousand dollars is already in his account, the next round of chemotherapy already scheduled.

Five thousand a month. A fighting chance for Dad. That’s all that matters.

Not the way Arkady Laurov looked at me during my interview, like he was stripping away layers of pretense to see what lay beneath. Not the electric current that had shot through my fingers when they brushed against his. Not the dreams that have haunted me since—dreams of ice-blue eyes and tattooed skin and hands that know exactly how to touch.

None of that matters.