Page 45 of Surrendering to the Obsession

His voice trembled, not from anger alone, but from the fear and desperation he had buried for months.

Then his eyes traveled over her dress, and something darker flickered across his face.

“And what the hell are you wearing?” he snapped, eyes traveling slowly from the hem of her dress up to her bare shoulders. His nostrils flared. “Since when do you dress like this?”

He stepped closer—breath uneven, chest rising with suppressed emotions. “What the hell is going on with you, Mia?”

Mia’s shock slowly drained away, replaced by irritation. Her expression hardened. She pulled her arm out of his grasp.

“I’m wearing it because I like it,” she said sharply.

Her voice was cold, rough, fed up.

That only poured gasoline on James’s already burning jealousy.

“Oh, I see,” he growled, stepping even closer, eyes burning into hers. “You think wearing short clothes is enough to get my attention? You disappear for months—months—and then show up dressed like this?” He scoffed, breath shaky with anger. “Do you actually think this will affect me? Make me want you more?”

His voice rose—raw, jagged, overflowing with everything he didn’t know how to express. “You think changing your clothes and pulling some dramatic disappearing act is going to get my attention?”

He stepped in, the anger in his eyes burning over the fear hiding beneath it.

“Give up this idea already,” he growled.

Mia’s brow tightened. She held his gaze for one long, cold moment before stepping back, deliberately widening the space between them.

“Did I ask you to find me?” she said, her voice flat as stone. “Did I ask you to care? I don’t care about you, James.”

The words hit him like she’d slammed a door in his face. His jaw locked. A dangerous calm slid over his expression, masking the storm underneath.

“Come home with me,” he commanded, voice dropping to a deadly quiet. “Now.”

He moved again, reaching for her arm—stubborn, furious, desperate. “Have you had enough fun roaming around? Where have you even been staying? Do you even have a place to live?” His voice rose. “Enough of this fucking crap. We’re going home tonight!”

But then something flickered in him.

That night replayed in his head—the video of her lying injured in the snow, blood spreading across the white around her—burned itself into his memory.

His eyes darted instinctively to her forehead.

The change in his face was instant—his jaw tightened, the muscles around his eyes pulled taut, and a storm gathered behind his gaze.

‘There’s no wound…’

Relief surged through his chest so fiercely it nearly stole his breath. For the first time in months, his lungs actually felt like they could expand. But the relief lasted only a heartbeat before panic crept back in.

‘But it must have hurt like hell. All that blood… What if she doesn’t even know how bad it was? Did she even go to a damn hospital to get checked?’

The questions clawed at him, the worry chewing through him like it had every night since she vanished.

Before he could reach for her again, Mia jerked back—sharp, fast, rejecting his touch completely.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she said flatly, “you seem to have forgotten something. I am not Mrs. Sinclair anymore. We are already divorced. Your home is not my home.”

James snapped like a live wire.

“We are not fucking divorced!” he roared, the sound echoing through the parking lot like thunder. “There isno divorcein my family.” He stepped toward her, eyes blazing. “The only time you stop being my wife is when you become a widow.”

Mia almost laughed in disbelief.