Page 89 of Cruel Obsession

Mirabel

The nausea slams into me before I even open my eyes.

I lurch from bed, bare feet sliding across the polished hardwood as I make a desperate dash to the bathroom. My knees hit the marble tiles with bruising force as I grip the toilet bowl, my body convulsing as I empty what little remains in my stomach.

When the heaving finally stops, I slump against the cool porcelain, my skin clammy, hair sticking to my forehead. The bitter taste of bile slicks my tongue.

“Just a stomach bug,” I whisper, trying to convince myself despite knowing better.

I flush and drag myself to the sink, avoiding my reflection as I rinse my mouth. The mansion is quiet this early, the silence pressing against my skin. Through the window, dawn is breaking across the mansion’s impeccable gardens—a beautiful backdrop to my misery.

This is the fourth morning I’ve woken like this. Four days of exhaustion that seeps through my bones, of unexplained nausea, of my body betraying me in ways I’m trying desperately to ignore.

My uniform feels tighter across my chest than it did last week. I tell myself it’s bloating—stress, poor diet, anything but the truth hovering at the edges of my consciousness.

By ten, I’ve barely made it through half my morning tasks. The east wing’s corridor stretches endlessly before me, the silver to polish multiplying with every piece I finish. My arms feel like lead, vision blurring at the corners. I’ve been working for less than three hours. It feels like twelve.

The living room beckons with its plush sofas and quietude. I glance around, confirming I’m alone, then slip inside. Just five minutes off my feet. Five minutes to gather my strength. I sink onto the sofa, the buttery leather yielding beneath me, and let my eyes drift closed.

“Is this what I’m paying for?” Arkady’s voice cuts through my momentary peace, drawing a sharp gasp from me. My eyes snap open to find him standing in the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, expression unreadable. The tailored lines of his black suit accentuate the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist. Power emanates from him in waves. He looks good enough to eat, goddamn him.

“What?” I croak out.

“Am I paying for my housekeeper to be sleeping on my sofa?”

I straighten immediately, hands flying to smooth my uniform. “Sorry.” My voice is meek. “I’m just tired.”

Something shifts in his gaze—a calculation, an assessment. He crosses the room in three long strides, pulling a chair opposite the sofa. He sits, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The posture brings him closer than comfort allows.

“Tired of what?” His Russian accent thickens the consonants, making even a simple question feel like an interrogation.

I glance away, unable to meet his eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Why not?”

I release a bitter laugh. “Not sure you want to know.”

“I do.” His tone shifts, softening unexpectedly. “You listened to me last time. It’s my turn.”

I study him, trying to reconcile this version with the man who barged in, questioning me like I’m failing at basic tasks. The man who pinned me to his bed two weeks ago, his mouthdemanding things I shouldn’t give. The man I’ve been carefully avoiding since that night, when my body betrayed my better judgment.

“But I can’t afford to pay you for therapeutic listening,” I say, aiming for lightness and missing.

“You don’t need to.” His gaze remains steady, intense in its focus. “Tell me what’s making you exhausted.”

“Okay, then. Two things.” I shift on the sofa, creating distance. “One, I’m worried about my father.”

“You keep in touch?”

“Sure.”

“When did you last speak to him?”

“Yesterday.”

“How is he doing?”

“Better. Cancer under control, thanks to the treatment.”