Page 49 of Cruel Obsession

Heavy footsteps approach from the opposite direction—not Anfisa’s silent glide but a man’s confident stride. Arkady rounds the corner, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapidRussian. When he spots me, he pauses mid-sentence, lowering the device.

“You’re still messing with the keys?” His eyes flick to the tiny labels I’ve attached. His frown deepens as he checks his watch. “It’s 10:30. May I ask when you wish to start the actual job itself?”

Heat rushes to my face. “Ihavestarted,” I say, gesturing to the labeled keys. “I’ve been putting labels on them all morning.”

“And who allowed you to put labels on my keys?”

Is he serious? The question is so absurd that I almost laugh.

“I allowed it myself,” I reply before I can stop myself. Immediately, I regret the words. The last thing I need is to get fired on my first day over some ridiculous power struggle about labeled keys.

But instead of anger, something else flashes in his eyes—amusement, maybe? Approval?

His lips quirk into that not-quite-smile that does strange things to my insides. He moves past me, arm brushing against mine in the narrow hallway. That brief contact sends electricity racing across my skin, a reaction so visceral it’s embarrassing.

“I like a woman with fire in her veins,” he says, voice low enough that I almost think I’ve imagined it.

Then he lifts the phone back to his ear, continuing his conversation as if I’ve ceased to exist, leaving me standing there with my heart hammering and my skin too tight.

Damn him. Damn this house. Damn the effect he has on me with nothing more than a glance and casual contact.

I think of the mystery door again, wondering who’s going to clean the room I have no key to. Probably him. The mental image of Arkady Laurov—with his expensive suit and cold eyes—wielding a mop makes me smile despite myself.

What secrets are you hiding, Arkady?

And why do I suddenly want to uncover them all?

I shake my head yet again, forcing myself back to the task at hand. The keys are labeled. Now the real work begins.

Five thousand bucks a month,I remind myself once again.For Dad.

But as I make my way through the house, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve already started opening something far more dangerous than locked rooms.

Chapter Fifteen

Mirabel

Dust spirals through beams of late afternoon light in Arkady’s bedroom.

Like most of the days that I’ve cleaned here, I’ve deliberately left this space for last. This private domain of the man whose presence charges through Ashwater Heights—and my skin—like an electric current.

His room speaks the language of wealth—minimalist, calculated, untouchable. The king-size bed stands like an altar in the center, draped in charcoal sheets as if waiting for a sacrifice… probably a willing one. Slate gray walls. Furniture with edges too precise to invite comfort. A space designed to intimidate rather than welcome.

Then I see it.

My hand freezes mid-sweep across the nightstand—a leather-bound album tucked away on the bottom shelf. It rests alone, solitary and somehow defiant in a room stripped of personal markers.

Keep cleaning, Mira.

Leave it alone.

But my fingertips already trace the spine, lifting it with care. The leather feels expensive against my skin as I place it on the bed, the weight of it substantial—heavier than photographs alone would justify.

A quick look won’t hurt.

I perch on the edge of the mattress, pulse quickening to an uncomfortable rhythm, and open to the first page.

I pull in a deep breath.