Page 31 of Cruel Obsession

The driveway curves past a small gatehouse built from the same white stone. A man in a dark suit stands outside, speaking into a radio. His jacket shifts as he moves, revealing the outline of something at his hip.

A gun.

My mouth goes bone-dry.

“You sure this is the place?” the driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Looks like a mob boss lives here.”

The casual comment makes me blink. I nod in response, then reach for my purse, but my fingers have gone numb.

“Could you wait here for me?” I ask, needing the security of knowing I can get away fast if I need to. When he doesn’t answer immediately, I add, “I’ll pay extra for the time you spend here.” It’s easy to be free with cash when you know someone else is paying.

“Sure,” he says, eventually, turning the key in the ignition and switching the car off. “Good luck,” he adds as I climb out. He sounds sincere. Like he knows I’ll need it.

The car has stopped at the base of wide stone steps that lead to massive oak doors. Double doors, each one easily ten feet tall, carved with what looks like some kind of family crest. I stand frozen, my legs suddenly wooden.

Above me, the house looms. Up close, it’s even more imposing—I can see security cameras positioned at intervals along the roofline, their lenses like black eyes. Motion sensors mounted near the gutters. Windows that might be bulletproof, given how thick the glass appears.

What kind of person needs this level of security?

The grounds stretch in every direction, perfectly maintained. To my left, I spot what looks like a hedge maze. To my right, a fountain shoots water twenty feet into the air, the spray catching rainbows in the sunlight. In the distance, pastrolling lawns, I can just make out the edge of the forest we drove through.

Completely isolated. Miles from anywhere.

Five thousand a month.

For Dad.

You can do this, girl.

I straighten my shoulders and climb the steps. Ten steps. Fifteen. The doors grow larger with each one.

I’m three steps from the top when the right door swings inward.

An older woman stands in the entrance, backlit by the interior. Silver hair pulled back in a severe bun, wearing a black dress with a white apron that looks like it was starched within an inch of its life. Her face is lined, her eyes sharp and assessing as they sweep over me—head to toe, lingering on my straining blouse, my too-tight skirt.

Finding me wanting.

“Good day. I am Anfisa, the head housekeeper. You are Miss McLeod?” Her accent is thick, Eastern European. Russian, I think.

“Yes.” The word comes out hoarse. I clear my throat. “Yes, I’m Mirabel McLeod. I have an interview for the housekeeping position.”

Except even as I say the words, I wonder if I’m about to make a terrible mistake.

Chapter Nine

Mirabel

The mansion swallows me whole the moment I cross the threshold.

Marble floors stretch beneath my feet like frozen rivers. Light fractures through a crystal chandelier, scattering diamonds of brightness across walls that could tell a hundred stories if they could speak. The air smells of money—that impossible-to-replicate scent of old wealth, polish, and power.

“This way,” Anfisa says, her accent wrapping around each word, distinctly Russian and utterly intimidating. “The boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

I follow her through corridors that seem to fold back on themselves, a labyrinth of luxury I’ll never navigate without a map.

What the hell am I doing?

Leaving everything behind. Stepping into a world I know nothing about. All for a father who has no one else.