Page 74 of Cruel Obsession

Steeling myself, I head for the east wing. The mansion feels different in daylight—less intimate, more imposing. Each step on the polished floor echoes, announcing my presence in spaces where I should move unseen. The staff are scarce today; half the security team went with Arkady to some meeting, and the remainder patrol the grounds rather than the house.

I reach Arkady’s bedroom door and hesitate, my hand on the ornate handle. This room—the scene of so many crossed boundaries. I shouldn’t enter without him here. But I need my phone, and it’s my day off. Surely this one liberty is allowed.

The door opens silently on well-oiled hinges. His scent hits me immediately—rich and masculine—and immediately I feel my pussy clenching. The bed is made, crisp corners and taut sheets hiding evidence of what happened there. One of the other maids must have been in already.

My phone lies on the nightstand, black screen accusing in its simplicity. I cross to it quickly, trying not to notice how the morning light softens the room, how the space feels both forbidden and familiar. I grab my phone and turn to leave when voices in the corridor freeze my blood. I recognize one of the security guards. But the female voice responding—higher, brittle with emotion—is unfamiliar.

They’re approaching quickly. No time to hide, and being found crouched in his room would be worse than being caught leaving it. I straighten my dress, grip my phone tightly, and move to the door.

As I step into the hallway, I collide with a woman coming the opposite direction. Her shoulder hits mine, the impact sending a jolt through me. I steady myself against the wall, an apology rising to my lips—until I see her face.

Rosanna Tulikova.

I recognize her instantly from that fateful day—the would-be bride, left at the altar. Her expensive perfume overwhelms the narrow space, sweet and cloying, making my head swim. She’s dressed impeccably in a blue couture dress that does nothing to hide her condition.

She’s pregnant. Noticeably pregnant.

Her face is tear-streaked, mascara bleeding at the corners of her eyes, but the disdain that flashes across her features is immediate and razor-sharp.

“Silly staff,” she mutters, swiping angrily at her cheek. Then her eyes widen, taking me in fully. “You! What are you doing here?” Her gaze darts to the door behind me, understanding dawning in her expression. “And why are you coming out of Arkady’s bedroom?”

The accusation in her voice flays me open. What am I doing here? Playing house? Playing mistress? The lines have blurred beyond recognition.

I open my mouth, but no explanation forms. What could I possibly say?

Don’t mind me.

I’m just the housekeeper… who sometimes fucks your ex-fiance.

“Um… I work here,” I say stupidly. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Help me with?” Her voice rises. “Yes. You could help me by getting the fuck out of my house.”

“Yourhouse?” I blurt, then immediately regret it. It seems unfair to antagonize her, considering the circumstances. Still, she doesn’t need to be such a bitch.

“Yes,” she snaps. “The house that would have been mine, if you hadn’t got in the way. Slut.” She spits the word with such venom I practically feel it.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” I say, though part of me knows it’s a lie. She may not be engaged to Arkady anymore, but sleeping with him was a terrible idea.

“Nothing wrong?” she scoffs. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

Heavy footsteps save me from answering. Arkady appears behind Rosanna, his tall frame dominating the narrow corridor. My stomach twists with something that makes me want to press my thighs together.

“Rosanna.” His voice is controlled. His eyes flick to me, then back to her. Whatever he sees in my face doesn’t register in his expression. “Let me see you to your car.” Then he looks directly at me, his face an impassive mask. “Have a good day off, Miss McLeod.”

Miss McLeod.Not Mirabel. Not the name he groaned against my neck last night.

I nod stiffly and brush past them both, feeling Rosanna’s eyes boring into my back as I walk away. My skin burns with humiliation. Of course she would appear now, when things between Arkady and me have become so complicated. A reminder of reality intruding on whatever fantasy I’ve been living.

In the garage, I slide into my car—a sleek silver Audi provided by Arkady to run housekeeping errands—and rest my forehead on the steering wheel.

What a fuckup.

I should never have slept with him. Nothing is ever simple with Arkady Laurov, and I was a fool to think I could separate my body from my emotions. To think I could share his bed without consequences.

I start the car. I should leave. Drive to town, get that coffee with my dad. Pretend this morning never happened.

But as I put the car in reverse, movement in the rearview mirror catches my eye. Arkady, striding toward me across the garage floor, his face dark with purpose.