Page 46 of Cruel Obsession

Her chin lifts, defiance flashing in those chocolate eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

“Good.” I turn, expecting her to follow as I lead her back toward my office. “There’s paperwork to finalize.”

In my office, I retrieve two documents from my desk. The first, I slide across to her.

“Your employment contract. One year, non-negotiable.”

She frowns, scanning the pages. “I wasn’t informed it was a one-year contract. No probation period?”

“No.” I keep my voice flat, final. “You either sign now or walk away.”

The internal battle plays across her face—pride warring with necessity. She knows as well as I do that her father’s life depends on this job. On me. The pen hovers over the signature line as she weighs options she doesn’t actually have.

She signs.

I slide the second document across. “And this.”

“An NDA?” Her eyebrows rise as she flips through the pages.

“Everything you see or hear in this house stays here. Forever. Even after you leave.” Not that I intend to let her leave, but the formality matters.

What the fuck, mudak?

Did you just think that?

I shake off the thought. What’s important here are boundaries, clear and enforceable. Those matter more than whatever bullshit I’ve got going on in my head.

She signs this too, her handwriting becoming more jagged, betraying the tension she’s trying to hide.

“Welcome to Ashwater Heights, Mirabel.” I take the signed papers, tucking them away in a folder. “Anfisa will show you how to install our household tracking app, and then finish your orientation this afternoon.”

“Tracking app?” She stares at me.

“All of my staff are required to be accessible at all times. The tracking app allows me to monitor your movements.”

“Jesus. Controlling much?” she mutters.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly.

“Good,” I say. “You’re dismissed.”

She stands, clutching the key ring like it might bite her. For a moment, she looks like she wants to say something—a question or challenge forming behind those expressive eyes.

But she thinks better of it, nodding once before turning to leave.

The door closes behind her, and I wait exactly ten seconds before moving to the surveillance system hidden behind a painting on the far wall. The panel slides open, revealing multiple screens showing every corner of the mansion.

I click through the feeds until I find her, walking briskly down the hallway toward her quarters, shoulders tight with what might be frustration or fear or both.

She enters her room, kicks off her sensible shoes, and sinks onto the edge of the bed. For a moment, she just sits there, staring at the key ring in her hands. Then her shoulders begin to shake.

Blyad.

She’s crying.

Something clenches in my chest; an unfamiliar sensation that might be guilt if I allowed myself such weaknesses. I watch as she wipes angrily at her cheeks, straightens her spine, and begins unpacking her meager belongings.