Page 75 of Cruel Obsession

Shit.

I switch off the engine.

He reaches my window, and I lower it, trying to keep my expression neutral.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice.

His eyes search mine, those blue depths revealing nothing. After a long moment, he says simply, “No.”

The raw honesty in that single word steals my breath. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t explain, doesn’t lie. Justno—stripped of pretense.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The question slips out before I can reconsider, born from some strange impulse I don’t fully understand.

His expression shifts, surprise breaking through his careful control.

“I don’t know if I can,” he says finally, the words careful, measured. “I’m not… used to that.”

I hold his gaze, saying nothing.

“Come to my office in ten minutes,” he says, decision made.

Reality reasserts itself. “It’s my day off today.”

“Right.” His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “Then take two days tomorrow. Same salary.”

The offer dangles before me. Time to see my dad, to escape this house and its complications. And yet…

“Um… okay,” I agree before I can talk myself out of it.

He nods once and turns, stalking back toward the house without a backward glance.

I sit motionless, my breath coming too fast. What am I doing? What game are we playing?

My phone buzzes in my hand—three missed calls from Dad. I call him back, but it goes to voicemail.

“Sorry, Dad,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with a lightness I don’t feel. “Something work-related came up, but I promise I’ll be there tomorrow, and we’ll spend the day together. Love you.”

I end the call, guilt and anticipation warring in my chest. Then I follow Arkady back into the house, certain I’m going to regret this.

Arkady’s office is a study in masculine power—dark woods, leather-bound books, and windows that overlook the estate like a king surveying his domain. The air smells of leather and his cologne, undercut with something sharper—liquor, maybe. A crystal tumbler sits on his desk, clear liquid catching the light.

He’s behind his desk when I enter, jacket discarded, shirtsleeves rolled to expose corded forearms. The tattoos I’ve traced with my fingertips peek from beneath the fabric—intricate designs whose meanings he’s never explained.

“Close the door,” he says without looking up from the document before him.

I obey, the heavy door shutting behind me. The sound feels final, sealing us into this moment.

“Sit.” He gestures to the chair across from him.

I remain standing. A small rebellion, but it’s all I have. “You wanted to talk,” I remind him.

His eyes lift to mine, narrowing slightly. The power dynamics between us shift constantly. Sometimes I don’t know what my role is supposed to be.

“You signed a confidentiality agreement,” he says finally, his accent thickening the words.

“How could I forget?” I respond.

“Good,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “I need to get something off my chest. And you’ll listen. No questions. Just listening.”