Page 73 of Reckless Obsession

“But let me make this clear, Tristan Sinclair,” he continues, his voice hardening just enough to strip away any illusion of civility. “The day I find out there is something going on between you and my son… is the day Pavel Global Holdings cuts all ties with the Sinclair law firm.”

The words don’t rise.

They don’t need to.

I stare at him, something cold settling beneath my skin, something that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with restraint. Because part of me wants to push back. To challenge him. To remind him that ultimatums only work when the other person is willing to bend.

But I don’t.

I’m just about to respond when his phone lights up against the desk, its vibration cutting through the silence. He glances at it, reads the message quickly, and lets out an exhalation as he stands.

He rounds the desk and stops in front of me, close enough now that the dynamic feels different.

“I trust you, Tristan,” he says, with a small, practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And I’m glad someone as competent and intelligent is managing the legal aspects of my company.”

A brief pause.

“I’m sure your father is proud of you.”

The words sound like praise. But they also feel like pressure.

Then his hand comes down on my shoulder in a firm, almost familiar pat. Something that might pass for encouragement to anyone watching.

But there’s weight behind it.

Expectation and a reminder.

And just like that, he turns and walks out of the office, the door closing behind him with a quiet, final click.

I stay where I am for a moment, maybe longer. Staring at the door like it might open again, like he might walk back in and take something back, say something different.

He doesn’t.

A slow breath leaves me as I finally stand, tension still coiled tight in my chest, lingering in my muscles. I drag a hand through my hair, grounding myself and forcing everything back into place.

Control.

Always control.

I turn toward the door, ready to leave and ready to put as much distance between myself and this conversation as possible.

But before I can reach for the handle, it opens.

Maksim steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

“What are you doing?” I ask, irritation flaring, genuine and immediate. “I’m leaving.”

“Sucks for you, Tristan,” he says, one brow arched, that cocky half-smile already curling at the corners of his mouth as if he owns the room.

My brows knit. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

He rolls his eyes like I’m the one being difficult, then brushes past me toward the office window. I track him, still caught off-balance, as he peers out, confirming something for himself. When he turns back, his eyes are lit up, bright with that particular brand of reckless intent that always means trouble. He saunters to the desk, hops up onto the edge, and folds his arms, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

“My dad and brothers are gone,” he says with a small, satisfied smile.

Whatever bullshit he’s about to pull already feels exhausting. I’m too angry and wound up from Pavel’s threat to deal with Maksim deciding now is a good time to become a problem.

So I turn back towards the door. I’m just reaching for the lock when his voice stops me.