Page 42 of Cruel Obsession

A glint of metal catches my eye—another security camera half-hidden in the branches, its lens tracking our approach. That makes seven I’ve counted since we turned off the main road. Seven electronic eyes watching, recording.

The trees suddenly part, the forest opening like a theater curtain to reveal Ashwater Heights in full dramatic display. My breath freezes mid-inhale. It’s still just as vast and intimidating as the first time I saw it. Huge and sprawling and altogether too much for just one man.

Correction: one man and his giant ego.

Maybe the size is appropriate.

We pass through the huge gates, past armed guards, and then make the winding trip up the drive to the front entrance.

The car stops. The driver exits and retrieves my luggage with efficient, impersonal movements. I remain frozen in the backseat, suddenly aware of how inadequate my preparations are—two suitcases to begin a life that already feels like quicksand beneath my feet.

Once again, the massive front door swings open before I reach the top step. Anfisa stands in the entryway, hands folded at her waist like she’s been waiting in that exact position for hours. Was she watching the cameras? Or does she have some sort of mystical power?

I fight down a shudder.

“Miss McLeod,” she says, her Russian accent transforming my name into something formal and strange. “Welcome to Ashwater Heights.”

My eyes dart past her, scanning the entrance hall for him—for Arkady—before I can stop myself. The disappointment that twists through me when I see only empty space is bothimmediate and humiliating. My body reacts like an addict denied a fix, and I hate myself for it.

“Thank you,” I manage, stepping inside. The foyer is vast and cool, lit by several large chandeliers that sprinkle light in strange patterns.

“Your bags will be taken to your quarters,” Anfisa says, already moving deeper into the house. “I will show you the main areas first.”

I follow her through the west wing, each room revealing new levels of opulence. A formal dining room with a table that could seat every friend I’ve ever had. A conservatory bursting with plants I can’t name. A library with more books than I’ve seen outside a university.

“You will be expected to maintain all common areas,” Anfisa explains, gesturing to intricate moldings that must be a nightmare to dust. “Mr. Laurov expects nothing less than perfection.”

Of course he does.

“And this is the kitchen,” she continues, leading me into a space that makes my eyes widen.

Gleaming stainless steel and rich wood fill a room that could swallow my entire apartment. Copper pots hang above an island that could hold my double bed. Three ovens—who the hell needs three ovens?—line one wall. A walk-in refrigerator hums quietly in the corner.

“You won’t need to cook often,” Anfisa says. “We have staff for that. But you should know where everything is.”

As we move through service corridors and back staircases, I hear fragments of a conversation—a man’s voice, low and sharp, speaking rapid Russian from behind a closed door. The anger in the tone needs no translation. Anfisa quickens her pace, deliberately drawing me away.

“The east wing is Mr. Laurov’s private residence,” she says as we enter another hallway. “You will not clean there without explicit permission. Those rooms have… additional security measures.”

My curiosity flares. “What kind of security measures?”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “The kind designed to keep people out, Miss McLeod. There are parts of this house that are not for you to see. Ever. Do you understand?”

The warning in her voice sends a chill across my skin. “Yes.”

“Good.” She stops before a door at the end of a quieter hallway. “These will be your quarters.”

The room beyond isn’t what I expected. Not a servant’s afterthought, but a suite worthy of a five-star hotel. A king-size bed dominates one wall, dressed in linens that probably boast a three-thousand-thread-count. A sitting area with elegant furnishings occupies another corner. High windows frame gardens that stretch toward the forest edge.

“This is… mine?” I can’t keep the disbelief from my voice.

“Mr. Laurov believes staff should be comfortable,” Anfisa says. “The bathroom is through there. Your clothes have already been unpacked.”

Something about that detail unsettles me—strangers handling my worn T-shirts and bargain-store jeans, arranging my pathetic wardrobe in closets designed for couture.

I move to the windows, drawn to the view. Evening light gilds the gardens, shadows stretching like fingers across meticulously trimmed lawns. In the distance, a lake gleams like spilled mercury against the tree line.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.