Page 73 of Cruel Obsession

What if this child is mine? Another life I’m responsible for. Another person I could destroy with these bloodstained hands.

“Okay.” I drag air into my lungs. “After the baby is born, we’ll do a DNA test.” The words come out clipped, clinical. “If the child is mine, I’ll take responsibility. But understand this: I’m not raising someone else’s kid.”

Her fingers curl into fists on her lap. “What exactly does ‘take responsibility’ mean to you?”

“Financial support. Whatever it needs.”

“It?” Her voice rises. “You’re talking about your own baby, Arkady. How could you be so cold?”

“Fine. He. She. Whatever. I’ll pay what you need. There’s nothing to worry about.” I lean back in my seat, putting distance between us.

“You don’t understand.” She leans forward, desperation making her bold. “I don’t need your money. My father left me his estate. His entire fortune. What I need is you. This baby needs his father. We need you present. In our lives.”

Something cold slides down my spine. In their lives. Playing house. Playing father. When I couldn’t even keep my brother alive.

“That’s not happening, Rosanna.” I stand, buttoning my jacket. A dismissal. “I have calls waiting.”

She rises too, shaky on her feet. Something hardens in her eyes, a glint of steel beneath the fragility. “You are the biggest bastard in the world, Arkady Laurov.” The words come out in a harsh whisper. “God help any child with your blood.”

She turns and stalks out, the scent of her perfume—something floral and too sweet—lingering in the air like an accusation.

I stand motionless, staring at the closed door. The biggest bastard in the world. Maybe she’s right. I killed her father and she has no idea. Left her at the altar. Refuse to play family with a child that may be mine.

But there’s work to be done. A business to run. Matters that need my attention if I plan to stay out of the muck of my father’s world.

This is what matters. Not Rosanna. Not her tears. Not the child that may or may not carry my cursed blood.

But as I work through the morning, her words echo.

The biggest bastard in the world.

And somewhere deep in the locked chambers of my heart, behind walls built on a dead brother’s memory, I wonder if she’s right.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mirabel

“The pipe burst happened just this morning, Mr. Coney,” I say into the business phone, my voice tight with forced professionalism.

The copper smell of water damage still hangs in the air from the burst pipe in the west wing bathroom. “I understand it’s short notice, but we need your team here today.”

I pace the length of the kitchen as the plumber makes excuses. It’s supposed to be my day off—the first in weeks—but instead, I’m here handling emergencies while dressed in my carefully selected outfit. The irony doesn’t escape me.

“Yes, Mr. Laurov would appreciate your prompt attention to this matter,” I add, watching his name work its magic. The mention of Arkady transforms the conversation instantly. Funny how that happens.

When I end the call, I set the landline down on the counter and search my pockets for my personal phone. Nothing. My stomach knots. Where is it?

I’ve been looking forward to this day for weeks—a chance to escape this gilded prison, to feel like a normal woman again. I’d spent an hour this morning getting ready, applying makeup with a careful hand, choosing a dress that hugs my curves just right. Deep burgundy—a color I’d never have worn before coming here. Before him.

But without my phone, I’m untethered. No way to check on Dad, no way for him to reach me.

Then the memory surfaces—lying in Arkady’s bed last night, my phone on his nightstand as his hands mapped my body, as his mouth claimed mine. I must have left it there when Islipped away, heart pounding with the recklessness of what we’d done.

I press my palms against the cool marble of the kitchen counter, steadying myself against the flood of sensations the memory triggers. The ghost of his touch lingers on my skin even now, hours later. The bruise on my collarbone throbs gently beneath my dress—his mark, hidden but present. A reminder.

This isn’t part of the job description, Mirabel.

But I know I’ll go back to his bed if he asks. Maybe even if he doesn’t.