Page 17 of Reckless Obsession

The man inside is mid-bite, burger clutched in his hand, sauce smeared on his fingers and the corner of his mouth. He freezes when he sees me, chewing slowly, eyes flicking from my face to my shoes and back to my face.

His gaze lingers.

Then his eyes widen in surprise and recognition. Disbelief turning into something tighter, more defensive. His shoulders square and his jaw works as he swallows.

I glance past him into the dim office—paper stacks, old monitors, the hum of cheap electronics.

“You’re not letting guests in?” I ask calmly, my voice even, almost bored.

The word 'guests' seems to trip him up. He hesitates, fingers tightening around the burger as if it might ground him. For a moment, I can almost hear him weighing his options. Pretend I don’t exist. Slam the door. Call someone.

None of them would help.

He clears his throat and steps back, wiping his hand on his jeans, which does nothing to clean the grease.

“Uh yeah. Sure,” he mutters, avoiding my eyes as he gestures inside. “Come in.”

The door slides open the rest of the way, and I let myself in.

Julian walks to his desk as if he’s trying not to trip over his own nerves. His shoulders are too tight, his steps too measured. He knows why I’m here.

Good.

I don’t wait for him to offer me a seat. I’m already sitting in the chair across from him, leaning back like I own the room.

Because right now I do.

I pin him with a look as he lowers himself into his chair. He blinks once, then forces out a short breath and an awkward smile that fails to reach his eyes.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asks, resting his elbows on the desk.

His voice is steady, and I almost respect that.

“Yes,” I say softly. “Actually.”

I tilt my head slightly, studying him the way one studies something small pinned under glass.

“Why did you send the pictures?”

He blinks again. There it is—the flicker. The split second where his brain scrambles for an exit. I see the lie take shape before it even reaches his tongue.

“I’m sorry?” he says, brows dipping. “What pictures?”

I count to ten in my head, exhale slowly, then mirror him: elbows on the desk, eyes locked. “The ones you sent me a week ago. Who paid you to take them?”

He meets my gaze with something almost defiant, which nearly makes me smile.

What is it with people trying me lately?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, shrugging.

The shrug is what does it.

“Alright,” I say simply.

I stand.

Slowly.