Page 45 of Cruel Obsession

“The second installment. As promised.” I slide it across the desk. Another ten thousand. “For your father’s treatment.”

Her eyes widen slightly, fingers hesitating before she takes the envelope.

“Thank you.” The words sound dragged from somewhere deep. “You didn’t have to.”

“I keep my promises.” I lean back, deliberately casual. “Has Anfisa shown you your duties?”

“Some of them. She mentioned you would finish the tour.”

“Da.” I stand, circling the desk until I’m closer than necessary. “We start now.”

I lead her through the west wing first, my shoes echoing against marble while hers make softer sounds, like she’s tryingto leave no trace. The cold opulence of the mansion seems more obvious compared with her warmth—chandeliers shine overhead, she traces her fingertips over the antique furniture as she passes. I watch her from the corner of my eye as she takes in the scale of the mansion. Every surface gleams—Anfisa made sure of it—but maintaining this level of perfection is a burden I’m now shifting to Mirabel’s shoulders.

“This is the main living area,” I tell her, gesturing to the space that could fit three normal apartments. “You’ll dust all surfaces daily. Vacuum twice weekly—more if needed.”

She nods, professional mask firmly in place as she takes mental notes.

“The kitchen requires cleaning after each meal. Floors mopped daily.” I continue through the list of tasks, watching her eyes grow wider with each addition. “The crystal chandeliers in the foyer must be cleaned once a month—there’s specialized equipment in the supply closet.”

We move through music rooms, studies, guest suites. With each new space, I add more duties, more expectations, building a mountain she’ll have to climb daily.

It’s cruel, yes. Testing her limits already. But I need to know if she’ll break. Need to know if she’ll run.

“The linens require special handling,” I explain as we pass the laundry facilities. “Temperature specifications are posted. Nothing hotter than sixty degrees for the Egyptian cotton. The silk sheets in my bedroom need hand washing.”

Her steps falter for just a moment when I mention my bedroom. A tiny tell that sends heat surging through me.

“You’ll be responsible for all washing, ironing, folding. My suits go to a specialized cleaner. My man will handle those.”

“Your man?” she asks.

“My second-in-command. You won’t see him much; he’s generally handling… operations.” I keep it vague.

“Of course.” She nods.

We reach the east wing. I stop before a heavy oak door, ornately carved, the weight of it substantial under my hand as I push it open.

“This is my private office. You’ll clean it only when I’m present.”

“I understand.” She meets my eyes, a challenge flickering there beneath the professional veneer. “Any other rooms with special requirements?”

The question hangs between us. She’s fishing, testing boundaries already. I suppress a smile.

“The east wing is mainly my living space,” I say instead of answering directly. “Your access is limited to necessary areas only.”

“And how will I know which areas are necessary?” The question comes with just enough edge to raise my hackles and my interest simultaneously.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the heavy key ring, the metal cold against my palm, the weight substantial.

“You’ll learn.” I drop it into her open palm, deliberately brushing my fingers against her skin. The contact sends electricity up my arm. Her sharp intake of breath tells me she felt it too. “Thirty-seven keys. Keep every room locked when not in use.”

She stares at the jumbled mass of metal, the keys jangling against each other. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You—” She stops short when I raise an eyebrow. “They’re not marked,” she adds.

“Very observant.”

“How am I supposed to know which key goes to which door?”

“Trial and error.” I step closer, crowding her personal space. “Unless you’re not up for the challenge?”