Page 54 of Cruel Obsession

“He thinks I have four hands and forty-eight hours to a day,” I mutter, immediately feeling guilty for the complaint. This job is Dad’s lifeline. His latest scan showed improvement—actual, measurable improvement. The tumor shrinking by millimeters that might as well be miles in the landscape of hope.

But Jesus Christ, the man is an insufferable prick.

I refold the paper and stuff it back into my pocket, mentally prioritizing which impossible tasks to tackle first. The heavy drapes in the east wing need cleaning. The silver needs polishing. The wine cellar needs inventory. The guest rooms need airing. The chandelier in the foyer—

Movement catches my eye.

I freeze mid-step, my body registering the anomaly before my brain processes it fully. The door—that door, the one no key fits, the one Anfisa warned me about—stands open. Just slightly. Just enough.

My heart rate notches up.

I’ve passed this door several times since I’ve been here. Always locked. Always forbidden. The mystery of what lies beyond has burned in the back of my mind because that’s how I’m wired. I always need answers.

And now it’s open.

I should ignore it. Should tackle my impossible task list. Should remember the warning that flashed in Arkady’s eyes when he said, “The east wing is off limits when I’m not here.”

Instead, I step closer, barely breathing.

The sound of movement comes from inside—soft, efficient rustling. A glimpse of cleaning supplies clustered outside the doorway confirms my suspicion before I ever peek through the gap.

Anfisa.

I lean forward just enough to see inside, just enough to commit this trespass that might cost me everything.

It’s not what I expected. Not a dungeon. Not a treasure vault. Not a secret office filled with evidence of criminal enterprises.

It’s a simple suite. Small, contained, and startlingly mundane compared to the opulence of the rest of Ashwater Heights.

This room smells lived-in, personal in a way the rest of the mansion isn’t, as if someone is actually living here. And I’d recognize that scent anywhere… cedar and gun oil. Him. He stays here.

But why? It’s nowhere near as luxurious as the mansion. The furnishings are basic: a simple bed, a desk, a chair, and a bathroom leading off the main sleeping area. Beneath the window, on a simple wooden stand, rests an urn. Elegant but unadorned. Beside it sits a gun in a glass case—a pistol, its metal gleaming under the soft lighting.

The breath catches in my throat. This place is private. Out of bounds.

I should leave. Should back away before—

“Mirabel!”

Anfisa’s voice makes me leap in the air. I jerk backward, nearly tripping over my own feet as she steps into the doorway, her face carved from granite.

“I warned you not to come anywhere near this room,” she grinds out.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer, though the apology feels inadequate for the boundary I’ve crossed. “I saw the door open, and I—”

“And you couldn’t help yourself.” Disappointment darkens her eyes. “I’m finishing up my final tasks this week before I retire. The only advice I can give you is this: stay away from this room. Mark my words; if you break this rule, you will regret it.”

The revelation startles me more than her anger. I knew she was going, but somehow it hadn’t seemed real. “You’re leaving? When exactly are you leaving?”

“Friday is my last day.” She moves into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed behind her, though she doesn’t lock it yet. “I have a few special duties to complete before then. This room being one of them.”

“But why?” I ask, unable to stop myself. “What’s so special about it?”

She studies me for a moment, as if weighing how much I can be trusted. “It’s Arkady’s sanctuary. He comes here when he wants to be undisturbed, and sometimes he stays for days.”

The image forms unexpectedly—Arkady sitting beside that urn, his shoulders heavy with some unspoken burden. Sleeping on that simple bed instead of his luxurious one. Existing in a space untouched by his wealth and power, stripped down to just raw emotion.

“How’s it going to be cleaned when you leave?” I ask, the question practical on its face, concealing the deeper ones I dare not voice.