Page 104 of Cruel Obsession

I slam the list against the granite countertop hard enough to bruise my palm.

The impact echoes through the kitchen—empty now, but soon to be filled with men who kill for a living.

“Do what I pay you for,” I hiss, mimicking Arkady’s Russian-tinged baritone. Blood rushes to my face, hot with rage and humiliation. “Mudak.”

The Russian curse feels right on my tongue. I’ve picked up more than I should living in this house of violence and secrets. The list taunts me from the counter—prep dinner for seven from scratch, clean every guest room, fresh linens, and make the massive conference room presentable after months of neglect. All before 4 PM. All alone.

My fingers press against my abdomen, where nothing shows yet, but everything has changed.

“Your father isn’t just a jerk,” I whisper to the life forming inside me. “He’s a killer who rejected his last pregnant fiancée at the altar.”

The morning’s food delivery sits in bags and boxes by the pantry. I push up my sleeves and survey what will become a battlefield by day’s end. My body aches with exhaustion—the bone-deep, cellular fatigue of first-trimester pregnancy that no amount of sleep can touch. Just weeks in, and the nausea comes without warning, leaving me clutching toilets and trash cans while the manor’s security pretends not to notice.

The irony suffocates me. I’ve trapped myself in a mansion working for the most dangerous man I’ve ever met—a man whowalked away from his last unborn child—while I’m carrying his baby in secret. My entire future balanced on a knife’s edge.

You did this to yourself, Mira.

I grab onions and carrots from the refrigerator, movements mechanical, practiced. The knife slides through vegetables with satisfying resistance. For a moment, I imagine it’s something else beneath my blade.Someoneelse.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I wipe my hands on a towel and see Diane’s name lighting up my screen.

“Hey,” I say quietly, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear while returning to my chopping. Even in the kitchen, I’ve learned that walls have ears in Ashwater Heights.

“How’s Mr. Bosshole treating you today?” Diane’s voice carries the familiar mix of concern and irreverence.

I glance toward both doorways, verifying I’m alone. “He’s impossible,” I whisper fiercely. The kitchen might be empty, but Arkady’s surveillance system is legendary. “Seven guests arriving tonight with zero notice. Expects me to prepare everything alone before four.”

“Deep breaths,” Diane says. “Remember why you’re there.”

“I know.” The knife slows in my hand as reality settles back over me like a shroud. I scrape diced celery into a pot and reach for herbs that cost far too much for such little green bundles. “But he treats me like property, not an employee with rights. And after what happened between us—”

I stop, throat constricting as memories flood back.

Stop it, Mirabel!

“After what?” Diane prompts sharply.

I lower my voice to a whisper. “After we started sleeping together. It’s maddening, Diane. One moment, he’s making me feel… everything, and the next, he’s treating me like I’m nothing. All while I’m carrying his child that he knows nothing about.”

“Have you thought about telling him?”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “Tell the man who humiliated his pregnant bride in front of Moscow’s entire criminal elite? He’d either fire me on the spot. Or…” I don’t finish the thought. I’ve seen the cold calculation in Arkady’s eyes when dealing with problems.

“Right,” Diane says, understanding what I can’t articulate. “Focus on your dad, Mirabel. That’s the only reason you need to stay in that house of horrors.”

My hand stills over the pot. “I know.”

“Speaking of which,” Diane continues, her voice softening, “I visited your dad yesterday.”

Something tightens in my chest. “And?”

“The treatments are working, Mir. Really working. He was gardening when I arrived—not just sitting, but actually digging and planting. He said he hasn’t felt this strong in months.”

The wooden spoon drops from my hand. I turn away from the food, pressing my fingers against my mouth to trap the sob building in my throat. The treatments Arkady’s blood money is paying for. The treatments keeping my father alive.

“You’re sure?” I manage, voice breaking.

“I’m sure. The color’s back in his face. He’s putting on weight again. The doctors are calling it remarkable progress.”