Page 5 of Cruel Obsession

“Rosanna Tulikova,” I say, my voice steady now, professional, “do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“I do.”

Her voice is cold. Final.

I turn to Arkady.

“Arkady Laurov,” I say, meeting his gaze, “do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

He looks at me. Really looks at me. Not at the scarf. Not at my chest. At myface. His eyes hold mine for a long moment—too long—and something shifts in his expression. Something I can’t read.

The silence stretches. Someone in the audience shifts. A throat clears. Rosanna’s grip on her bouquet tightens, her knuckles bone-white.

Then his jaw clenches.

“No,” he says, his voice low and deliberate. “I don’t.”

Chapter Two

Arkady

The Gold Room erupts.

Not loud—not yet—but I feel the shift. Bodies turning. Fabric rustling. Breath held then released in sharp bursts. The whispers start in the back rows and ripple forward like a wave gathering speed.

I don’t look back.

My footsteps echo off the parquet—steady, measured, each one driving me further from the altar and the woman standing there with tears streaking her makeup. One foot in front of the other. The doors ahead gleam with gold leaf, grotesquely ornate. Like everything else in this fucking charade.

“You will regret this, Arkady!”

Sergei Tulikov’s voice cracks through the silence like breaking bone.

I stop. Turn halfway.

He’s on his feet, one hand white-knuckled on the chair back, the other wrapped around Rosanna. She’s folded into him, her face pressed to his chest, shoulders trembling. The performance is flawless—she’s been practicing this particular brand of fragile since she was old enough to realize tears got her what she wanted.

Sergei’s only child. His perfect, breakable doll. He’s kept her wrapped in silk and diamonds since her mother died, never let a harsh word touch her, never let reality intrude on the fantasy world he built around her.

I wonder how long before he realizes I just did her a favor.

“You humiliate my daughter?” Sergei’s voice rises, carrying to every corner of the room. “In front of everyone?” Hetakes a step forward, still cradling Rosanna against him. “You think you can walk away from this? Fromme?”

I meet his eyes. Hold them. “I just did.”

“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “No, you made a choice. And choices have consequences in our world.” His voice drops, but somehow it carries further. “You know this, Arkady. Your father taught you this.”

“My father taught me a lot of things.” I take a step toward him. Just one. Enough to make my point. “Most of them were shit.”

Gasps ripple through the guests. Someone’s babushka clutches her pearls.

Sergei’s face darkens. “You’ve just declared war on the Tulikov family. On our alliance. On everything we’ve built.” He eases Rosanna toward her aunt—a thick-waisted woman in purple who immediately wraps protective arms around the girl. Now Sergei stands alone, and his posture shifts. Shoulders back. Chin up. This is the man who built an empire on intimidation and blood.

“I’m going to destroy you,” he says quietly. “Slowly. Thoroughly. Every business deal, every contract, every scrap of respect you think you’ve earned—gone. And when you have nothing left, when you’re begging in the streets, I want you to remember this moment. Remember that you did this to yourself.”

The threat hangs in the air. Heavy. Real.