Page 1 of Reckless Obsession

PROLOGUE

MAKSIM

The grandfather clock in Mr. Sinclair’s office swings left to right.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I tilt my head and watch it, the sound burrowing into my skull until my eye twitches. I wonder what would happen if I pushed it over—if it would shatter loudly or die quietly.

I wonder if he’d get mad. If his face would turn red, if his hand would snap out and strike me. I wonder if it would hurt. I wonder if I’d like it the same way I like it when Logan hits me.

A sob pulls me from my thoughts.

I glance to my right and realize it’s coming from my mother. My father sits beside her, rubbing slow circles into her back, watching her with something in his eyes I don’t have a word for. He looks at her as if she’s fragile. Like she might break if he presses too hard.

I don’t understand that look.

Mr. Sinclair watches them differently. There’s something in his eyes I recognize immediately.

Pity.

I’ve been receiving the same look from people since I was ten.

“He’s just fourteen,” my mother says through her tears. “He shouldn’t be thinking about things like this. He shouldn’t have to go through this.”

Mr. Sinclair’s gaze drifts to me, and I don’t look away.

He’s an intimidating man with deep brown eyes, hard features, and the kind of face that doesn’t waste words. He’s been my father’s lawyer for as long as I can remember, close enough to our family that his presence feels permanent and inevitable.

You’re likely curious why my mother is crying to our lawyer about me. It seems I’m being sued, or perhaps my parents are. Either way, it doesn’t really matter.

I added peanut butter to the smoothie my mother prepared for my therapist during one of her visits, even though the woman was allergic.

Did I know that? Yes.

Did I do it on purpose? Also yes.

She’s a terrible therapist. And I don’t need fixing.

Mr. Sinclair sighs, removes his glasses, and studies me for a moment before offering a small, composed smile.

“Maksim,” he says in a calm but authoritative tone, “Could you wait outside my office while I speak with your parents?”

I nod, relieved at the thought of escaping the suffocating air in here. The ticking clock. The way the walls feel like they’re pressing in on me. The way everyone keeps looking at me as if I’m something fragile or dangerous.

The door closes softly behind me.

I let out a slow breath and glance down the long hallway. My eyes flick to the chair beside Mr. Sinclair’s office… then past it.

Why sit when I can explore?

So I do.

The house is quiet in the way expensive homes always are. Too performative, too careful. Every step I take feels as if it might echo forever.

I stop in front of a large painting of a waterfall, studying the way the artist captured motion without sound.

I like it.