Page 99 of Cruel Obsession

I don’t bother to respond. I don’t need, or want, an escort. I don’t know this house well; I’ve seldom been here since my father got rid of the family home but on the few occasions I’ve visited, it’s always been in my father’s study.

I stride over floors gleaming with fresh polish, reflecting the crystal chandeliers that hang at precise intervals. No dust, no imperfections. Just like Father’s operations: clean on the surface, filthy underneath.

I don’t knock. The heavy mahogany door swings open under my hand, revealing my father behind his desk. He looks up from a stack of papers, silver eyebrows lifting slightly—the only indication of surprise he allows himself to show.

“Arkady,” he says, setting down his fountain pen. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Cut the shit,” I say, closing the distance between us. “I know you’re behind Julia Kisinova and Niki Tamasky’s disappearance.”

Father’s study is a reflection of his self-image: leather-bound books he’s never read, hunting trophies from animals he didn’t kill, and a massive portrait of himself where most men would hang their family. The air smells of sandalwood and cigars, undercurrents of whiskey and something metallic—like old blood.

“That’s quite an accusation,syn.” He leans back in his chair, resting his hands on the walnut desk that’s wide enough to host a billiards game.

“Don’t fucking ‘syn’ me,” I growl. “Where are they?”

I remain standing, though he gestures to the leather chair opposite his desk. Another small rebellion. Standing gives methe height advantage, forces him to look up. These power games were his first lessons to me, and I learned them well.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, examining his manicured nails. But I see the calculation in his eyes—the same cold assessment I’ve watched him give to business rivals before they disappeared.

“Stop lying.” I bite out the words. “Julia is Stefan’s daughter.”

That gets his attention. His eyes sharpen, recognition flashing before he can mask it.

“Ah, Stefan,” he says, voice deceptively light. “Your bald watchdog with the head-tattoos? The one who fucked up my operation in the forest six years ago?” His lips curl into something too cruel to be a smile. “Perhaps he should have kept a closer eye on his precious daughter. High time to pay back what he did to me.”

Something snaps inside me—a control wire I’ve kept taut for years. I lunge forward, seizing his collar. The fabric—Egyptian cotton, custom-tailored in London—bunches in my fist as I drag him half across the desk.

“Where. Are. They?” My voice drops dangerously low.

For a moment, I see myself through his eyes. My hands at his throat, violence barely contained. The son becoming the father. The realization makes me sick, but I don’t let go.

“Let go of me, you piece of shit!” he roars, but there’s a flicker of something I’ve rarely seen in his eyes. Fear. Good.

“WHERE?” I tighten my grip, my control slipping. In my peripheral vision, I see the silver letter opener on his desk—six inches of polished steel that could end this here, end him. The thought burns through me, both tempting and horrifying.

I am not him.

I am NOT him.

“Fine,” he manages, voice strained. “Calm the fuck down. I’ll make a call.”

I release him, carefully, watching as he straightens his shirt with a semblance of dignity. The collar will be creased—a small slur in his perfect world that gives me a flicker of satisfaction.

He reaches for his phone, dials a number I don’t recognize. “Status update on the Dubai shipment,” he says in Russian, eyes never leaving mine. A pause. A few more words I can’t quite catch. Then he hangs up.

“The girls are about to go to Dubai,” he tells me, smoothing his silver hair. “An oil billionaire paid handsomely for them. They’re being prepared for shipment.” His lips twist in what might be satisfaction. “Happy?”

Happy? Is he out of his fucking mind?

I say nothing, spinning on my heel as I turn to leave. My hand itches for my weapon, but I resist. Killing him now solves nothing and costs me everything—my freedom, my businesses, my future. He knows this. It’s why he pushes, always.

“What are you going to do, Arkady?” he calls after me. “Try to play hero again? You don’t even know where they are. All my facilities are heavily guarded. They might already be on the ship.”

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

“And you’renothing, Arkady! Get the fuck out of my house. I can’t stand the sight of you!”

The door slams behind me, cutting off his voice. I stand in the hallway, breathe in, then out. Calm the storm. Think.