Page 20 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

I’m so fucked.

Chapter 9

Millie Grant

I step off the elevator before remembering I need to pull my key out of my bag. Despite the fatigue weighing down my limbs, bittersweet happiness tugs my lips into a smile as I open the zipper, stick my hand inside, and duck my head for visual aid when my key doesn’t magically appear in my hand.

The past few hours have been a dream come true. I love organizing a space to make life easier for my client, and caring for Lola fulfills parts of my soul I didn’t know were empty. After her nap, she blossomed into the curious, smart, lively little girl I met at Karey’s wedding. She’s truly a joy to spend time with.

Artur’s sudden thawing also feels like a fantasy come to life. I don’t believe he trusts me with his daughter yet—and I don’t expect him to until I fully prove myself—especially since he never let me out of his sight even after giving me a tour of his gorgeous home and telling me to treat it as my own, but the softening of his gaze is profound compared to his previous hatred.

While focusing on Lola was not a chore, hiding the effect Artur has on me took more of a toll than I realized, so I take advantage of my moment alone and let a bit of whimsy into my smile.

It hurts so much to be this close and yet still so far from the man I love. Every time he sets aside his work and pours his entire focus on his daughter, my heart melts a little more. His proud smiles and heartfelt encouragement as he guides her through mundane tasks—even washing her hands and helping her chose which toy to play with next—fills me with wonder.

I wish they were mine but am painfully aware they never will be. Artur’s harsh words replay in my mind.

Stop trying to take Regina’s life. She wouldn’t trust you with our daughter either.

Artur and Millie belong to Regina. I can never replace her. I don’t want to. It’s not fair to any of us to assume I even could.

When I finally close my fist around my key and look up, my blood freezes in my veins.

My father’s bloodshot eyes and disheveled appearance fill me with dread. The stench of hard liquor, cigarettes, and body odor accosts my sinuses despite the distance between us.

“Get over here, Mills,” he demands.

My father always wanted a boy, so he never called me by my given name. He said it was too feminine. I hate the nickname but never dared to tell him. Even now, I’d rather run than challenge him.

I swallow and try to step forward but my tongue sticks to the roof of my dry mouth and my feet refuse to lift off the floor. Two beefy men step out from the alcove opposite my apartment. My hands shake so badly my key slips back into my purse.

“Get over here now,” my father demands.

I walk to him on wooden legs. He grips my nape with bruising force and pulls me to his side. Every ounce of self-preservation drains from my head. All the techniques I’ve learned over the years at the self-defense class Brook runs at Mr. Carter’s gym flee into an alternate dimension.

“See? My daughter. She might be a bit older, but she’s pretty and clean. I didn’t lie,” he says to the two thugs.

My entire body ices over. Bile fills the back of my throat as they look me over. Despite the interest lurking in their eyes, they turn unimpressed stares to my father. He blanches and shoves me away. I stumble, catch myself on the wall, and spin around to face them as fast as possible. My father rubs his hands in a pleading motion at the larger man.

“I’ll have the money, I swear. She’s just collateral. I’ll do anything to protect her, right? I mean, she’s my daughter, so of course I will, yeah? Just give me two weeks. Two weeks is all—”

“Six days,” the bouncer says before nudging his partner with his elbow and lumbering down the hall.

As the two behemoths disappear into the elevator, my flight reflexes kick in and I rummage through my bag for my key.

Rough hands grip my shoulders and slam me back into the wall.

“I need fifty K by tomorrow,” my father snaps.

His fingertips dig painfully deep as he squeezes my shoulders. I shrug, but he tightens his hold and knocks me against the wall again.

He hasn’t visited me in eight months, but I never once thought he was gone for good. He always comes back demanding more money.

I don’t have fifty thousand dollars. He stole everything from my account eight months ago, even the annual holiday gifts from previous clients.

If it weren’t for the savings account I opened with cash at a posh credit union a few years ago, I wouldn’t have a single cent to my name, but I’ve managed to ferry enough away to have six months of living expenses for my mother and brother. I was a fool for hoping to do the same for myself.

Even though I make more money than I thought possible, I struggle to pay my own rent sometimes because providing for my mother and brother—including his expensive treatments—takes priority. My father steals the rest.