Page 117 of Cruel Obsession

“What’s going on?” says Yanis.

“The housekeeper’s missing,” I say, my voice dropping to the deadly quiet my enemies have learned to fear. I turn back to the screens, pointing to the glowing dot. “Her phone went dark three hours ago. Messages delivered, no response. Last location, her father’s house. Right here.”

Stefan’s eyes narrow as he studies the map, jaw tightening. I can almost see the machinery of his mind working, the pieces assembling.

“What do you care,brat?” Yanis asks, caution in his tone as his gaze flicks to the hole in the wall, the blood on my knuckles. “Can’t you get another housekeeper?”

The look I give him could freeze hell itself. “Do you really want to question me right now?” The threat in my voice is unmistakable.

Stefan shifts his weight, steering the conversation to more practical issues. “This area’s known for disappearances, boss.” He points at a screen. “Multiple cases I’ve recently tied back toyour father. Quiet streets, minimal security cameras, multiple escape routes.”

Yanis’s face hardens, a shadow crossing his features as he looks at me. “Fuck,bratan. Your housekeeper… the looker with the dark hair?”

I grit my teeth and nod.

“You realize that she fits the criteria Father looks for, right? Long dark hair, dark eyes, a little bit…” He makes a waving motion with his hands. “Curvy.”

I stare at him as the realization hits with brutal clarity: Mirabel. Vanished. Matches exactly what my father wants. I can’t breathe for a second as it all locks into place, my vision edging with red.

“Jesus,” I grind out. My father is probably behind this. The man who raised me, whose blood runs in my veins, has taken Mirabel.MyMirabel.

“We’ll find her,” Stefan says quietly, his voice breaking through the roaring in my ears. “Together with Julia and Niki.”

“Use every contact we have,” I order, already pulling up security feeds, camera angles. “Check the usual spots. Talk to our people on the streets. I want the precise plan ready in two hours. We move tonight.”

After they leave, I stand at my window, fist pressed against the glass. The dread in my gut feels like a living thing with teeth and claws, shredding my insides. Beyond the dread, something darker builds—rage in its purest form, a storm gathering deadly strength.

These disappearances, all connected—and my father orchestrating every single one. The evidence has been there all along. I just refused to acknowledge what it meant: that my own blood, my own father, is more than a monster. He’s the Devil himself.

My phone buzzes against my thigh. My heart lurches painfully. Mirabel? I answer without checking the screen.

“Can I speak to Arkady Laurov, please?” The voice is male, professional. Not Mirabel. The disappointment is a physical blow.

“Who’s asking?” I keep my tone lethal, warning the caller not to waste my time.

“My name is Dr. Cullen from the prenatal department of St. Mary’s Hospital,” he says. “I’m calling about Rosanna Tulikova.”

I frown, struggling to shift mental gears. “Yes?”

“I’m afraid Miss Tulikova was in a severe car accident last night.” There’s a pause, and his voice softens slightly, the way doctors do when they’re delivering fatal news. “We couldn’t save her.”

“What?” I bark, disbelieving.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, sir. Miss Tulikova succumbed to her injuries. I’m afraid she passed away in the early hours of the morning,” he says.

I try to process this. “I don’t understand,” I say stupidly.

“She was 34 weeks pregnant,” he continues. “We performed an emergency C-section to save the baby. The baby boy is stable but premature. He’s in our NICU.”

My head is reeling. Rosanna is dead. Our complicated history, her depression, our failed wedding—all suddenly meaningless against the finality of death.

“I see,” I manage to say. “Have you… contacted her next of kin?”

“Well, that’s where it gets complicated,” Dr. Cullen says cautiously. “Miss Tulikova named you as the father before the surgery.”

The room spins around me dizzyingly.

Bozhe moy!