Page 27 of Cruel Obsession

“But the Georgian—”

I stand, my chair rolling back hard enough to hit the wall. “I said, get the fuck out.”

Mikhail pales, nodding rapidly. He backs toward the door, nearly tripping over his own feet. “My apologies, boss. I’ll come back when—”

“When I call for you.” I stare him down, watching him shrink under my gaze. “And next time, knock.”

“Da.Sorry, boss.”

The door snaps shut. The interruption should cool my blood. Instead, the surge of territorial rage at being disturbed while looking at her only heightens the heat building under my skin.

I scan her CV, barely processing the words. Registrar. Organizational skills. Attention to detail.

Nothing about housekeeping experience. Nothing substantial that qualifies her for this job.

It should be an automatic rejection.

Instead, I click reply.

Something hot and dangerous coils in my chest. The universe just handed me exactly what I’ve been obsessing over for the past week. The woman who stood at that altar and watched me walk away. The woman whose image has refused to leave my mind, even when I’ve fucked myself raw with my own hand trying to exorcise her.

And now she wants to work for me. Live in my house. Be at my command. I have to be the luckiestmudakto walk the surface of this planet.

I type the interview invitation on Anfisa’s behalf, fingers moving too fast. Set the date for Thursday. Just two days away… probably too eager, too obvious, but I don’t care.

I want to see her. Need to see her. Need to know if the effect she had on me was real or just a product of that moment—the stress of the wedding, the fight with Rosanna, the pressure of a hundred eyes watching me.

I hit send before I can think better of it.

The moment it’s done, my body reacts again—a rush of adrenaline that makes my hands unsteady. I pace to the window, adjusting my cock through my pants, willing the hardness away through pure force of will. This reaction to a fucking email—to the possibility of seeing her again—it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before.

Pizdets!

The hunger shifts, transforms into something colder. More calculating.

I need to know more. Need to know who she is, where she comes from, what she wants. Need to know if she’s connected to anyone who might want to hurt me. Sergei. My father. The Georgians.

Need to know if she’s a plant.

I pull up a search engine, type her name. Start digging.

Social media first. She’s not hard to find. Her profile isn’t locked down—rookie mistake. Photos load on my screen. Her on a beach somewhere, hair blowing in the wind, laughing at something off-camera. Her with an older man—her father, based on the resemblance, his arm around her shoulders at what looks like a graduation ceremony. Her at a café, coffee mug raised to the camera.

Each image sends another jolt through me. I memorize details—the way her throat curves, the small mole near her left collarbone, how her smile tilts higher on the right.

And then—

I stop scrolling. Blink. Look closer.

Two of her.

The photo shows two identical women—girls, really—arms linked, heads tilted toward each other. Same face. Same smile. Same eyes.

Twins.

Something cold slithers up my spine.

I check the caption:Missing you every day, D. Six years and counting.