Page 76 of Cruel Obsession

I fold my arms across my chest. “Is that part of my job description?” I ask. “To be your therapist, I mean.”

His mouth tightens. “No. How about snooping around in places where you shouldn’t?”

The barb hits its mark. Heat floods my cheeks when I think about him watching me touch myself in the forbidden room.

“Sit,” he says again, and this time I do, perching on the edge of the leather chair.

He takes a drink, the liquor leaving a wet sheen on his lower lip. I watch him swallow, my own throat suddenly dry.

“Rosanna is pregnant.” His voice is flat, emotionless. “If the baby is mine, I’ll take full responsibility. But chances are, it’s not mine.”

His knuckles whiten around the glass. “And the last thing on earth I want is to have a kid. No way. Absolutely no way I want kids.”

The vehemence in his voice startles me. There’s a story there, something dark and painful that he’s not sharing. His walls are up, higher than ever.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, breaking his rule. “And why are you so adamant about not having kids?”

His face darkens, shadows gathering in the hollows of his cheeks. “I said no questions,” he says, voice dropping to a dangerous register that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

“You can’t just drop that on me and expect me not to say anything,” I reply.

“I just did.” He stands abruptly, straightening papers on his desk. “I’m done.”

“That’s it?” I feel a frown form. “You called me in here just to tell me you don’t want kids?”

“Yes,” he says, infuriating me. “You can go now.”

“Go where?” I ask.

“Back to work. Since you’re taking your leave tomorrow, today is a normal working day for you. Is there anything you need to report?”

The dismissal stings. One moment of openness, then the shutters slam closed. I stand too, professional mask sliding back into place.

“Yes, one of the pipes in the west wing burst this morning.” I manage to keep my voice cool and steady. “I contacted the plumber. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Good.” He’s looking at something on his desk as he says it. When I hesitate for a moment, he looks back up at me. “You can go,” he says again.

The cold formality cuts deeper than it should. I stand, giving him an exaggerated curtsy. “Yes, sir.”

As I turn to leave, I catch his expression—something raw and unguarded flashing across his features. But it’s gone before I can decipher it, and the door closes between us with a quiet click.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Mirabel

That night, sleep eludes me.

My body is restless, skin too sensitive against the sheets. My mind races with unwelcome images: Rosanna’s tear-streaked face, her swollen belly, the emptiness in Arkady’s eyes when he declared he’d never want children.

What a day.

I should have spent it with Dad, instead, I stayed here and listened to my boss opening up to me in his own asshole way. And very stupidly, hearing him open up had a sexual effect on me. The vulnerability he rarely shows made me want him more than his strength ever could. Because I’m clearly going insane.

I throw back the covers and stand, pacing the length of my room. The house is quiet at this hour, the staff long since retired, only the night guards patrolling the perimeter.

Desperate for air, for space, I slip into the hallway. The corridor stretches dark and silent before me, moonlight spilling through tall windows to pool on the polished floor. I move without conscious thought, bare feet silent on cool marble.

The garden will be peaceful at night. I’ve watched it from my window often enough, the manicured lawns silvered by moonlight, roses nodding in the gentle breeze.