Page 224 of Reckless Obsession

Jake’s face tightens. The realization that I already know about his leverage knocks the wind out of him, but his arrogance scrambles desperately for higher ground.

He pulls hard against the restraints, forcing a shrill, mocking laugh from his throat.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” He sneers, attempting to puff out his bruised chest. “You think keeping me tied to a chair down here is going to save you? You’re wasting your fucking time, Maksim. There’s nothing you can do to me. My family has money, power, and enough federal connections to turn this whole city upside down to find me.”

I tilt my head, watching him dig his own grave with sheer fascination.

“I’ve been missing for over seventy-two hours,” he barks, his eyes wide with frantic defiance. “Do you really think nobody noticed? My family is already looking for me! The police, the press, Tristan—everyone is tearing the streets apart trying to find where I am. The second they track me to this basement, your entire pathetic mafia empire burns to the ground!”

I stare at him for a long, quiet moment. Then, I slowly shake my head.

“Actually, Jake,” I say softly, offering him a sympathetic little click of my tongue, “you’re completely wrong.”

Jake’s mouth snaps shut, his eyebrows pulling together in irritation. “What?”

“As of roughly three hours ago,” I drawl, smoothing the crease of my slacks, “Jake Wesley was officially declared a dead man.”

The color drains from his skin in a single, violent stroke.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You were scheduled to fly out to Geneva for the Windstow conference at two in the afternoon yesterday, weren’t you?” I ask in a calm, conversational tone. “Well, you went, of course. You boarded your lovely private jet, took off on schedule, and headed across the Atlantic. But then… tragedy struck. A catastrophic mechanical failure mid-flight. Smoke in the cabin, an engine engulfed in flames, a frantic, broken distress call from the cockpit as the plane plummeted into the freezing ocean. And then—poof.”

I open my hands in a soft, mocking gesture of an explosion.

“Scattered across the deep water. No survivors. What a shame.”

Jake looks at me with a face so entirely frozen in perplexity it is almost comical.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he demands, his voice rising an entire octave. “I haven’t gone to Geneva! I was in my penthouse getting my luggage ready when those assholes snuck in and dragged me here. I never stepped foot on that plane!”

I reach inside the inner pocket of my coat, pull out my phone, and unlock it. My fingers dance across the screen for a couple of seconds before I lean forward and turn the bright display toward his face.

The screen plays a video from his Instagram Story.

In the video, Jake—dressed in his designer trench coat and dark sunglasses—is casually walking along a sunlit private airstrip. He flashes a charming, smug grin at the camera, spins to reveal the sleek charter jet waiting on the tarmac, and blows a little kiss before strutting up the stairs.

I swipe left.

The next image is a crisp, high-resolution post from his main feed, uploaded nearly twenty-four hours ago.

Jake is lounging comfortably in the jet’s cream leather interior, a crystal flute of champagne raised in his hand towards the window.

Beneath the photo, the caption reads: Catch flights, not feelings. On my way to Geneva for the Windstow conference.

For several seconds, Jake does not move.

His eyes travel from the phone to the post, then back to me.

“What the fuck?” he whispers.

I say nothing.

“That’s not me!” His voice rises. “I never posted that. I never got on a fucking plane.”

I look down at my phone, studying the screen as though I am considering his argument. Then I lift my gaze back to him.

“Looks pretty convincing to me.”