Page 25 of Reckless Obsession

Go away.

Another knock comes in, this time insistent.

I exhale slowly, forcing the storm in my heart to settle. I let the curtain fall back into place, then cross the room and swing the door open.

The estate butler stands there, hands folded neatly behind his back. His bald crown gleams under the corridor lights, a thin crescent of hair clinging stubbornly to the back of his skull. His posture is rigid, his expression professionally neutral.

For some inexplicable reason, he always reminds me of Preminger in those old Barbie movies Ivana and I used to watch as children. Overdramatic villain energy wrapped in polished manners.

The memory almost makes me laugh.

“Your mother said you need to start getting ready for the dinner we’re having with the guests,” he says smoothly. “They’ll be here in an hour.”

Guests.

That fucking family.

My teeth grind together. I’m surprised they don’t crack.

“Tell Mother,” I say, my voice low and vibrating with something barely leashed, “that I would rather jump off a fucking bridge than eat dinner with that family.”

The butler doesn’t flinch. He never does. He simply inclines his head slightly, absorbing the hostility as if it’s part of his job description.

I slam the door in his face.

❧

Anger burns through me like a slow fuse, quiet and inevitable.

I keep my eyes fixed on my plate, the pale porcelain reflecting the chandelier’s light like something submerged. The surrounding noise softens at the edges as voices blend into a dull hum. Intrusive and unsettling laughter cuts through, and it grates on my skull and scrapes my bone. My eye twitches painfully, and I concentrate even more on the plate, knowing that if I lift my head, if I look at him, I might ruin this dinner.

Jake’s laughter is the loudest.

God, I hate his laugh.

It’s loud in that calculated way that feels neither genuine nor spontaneous. It’s the kind of laugh people use when they want to be seen laughing. When they want to dominate a room without earning it.

He keeps talking.

To my father and his father.

To my mother and his mother.

To Anton, who just nods a reply to him

To Alexander, who just ignores him.

I don’t say anything or look at him because if I do, I might actually reach across this table and slam his head into his plate just to see if he still finds himself funny while choking on steak.

My mother’s hand brushes mine under the table. It’s subtle and soft, but it’s almost like a warning and a plea.

I lift my head and look at her. Her eyes search mine, dark and worried, like she’s standing at the edge of something unstable. Like she knows if she says the wrong thing, I’ll trip.

I look away first.

“I am sure this project will go smoothly,” Jake’s father says, his voice smooth and eager, like a man presenting himself for approval. He smiles at my father. “This is like a dream come true for us to work together.”

“Yes, of course,” my father replies, his tone clipped and professional, but there’s a slight crease at the corner of his eyes, a satisfaction he doesn’t bother to hide.