Page 53 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

“Artur, I need to talk to you.”

The seriousness in her tone flips my worry into overdrive.

“What’s wrong, Millie?”

“Actually… can we do this at the table? I need my professional persona for this conversation,” she says.

“Of course, Ms. Grant,” I concede.

I pull out the chair at the head of the table for her. She settles into it and waits until I take the seat nearest her before she stacks her hands on the table in front of her. With this angle, we both have clear views of Lola playing, but the tension in Millie pulls my eyes back to my daughter over and over again.

Even though the three of us are the only living souls in the room, I keep searching for a threat. Millie seems so tense.

“Thank you, Mr. O’Brian,” she begins.

I nod and lean back in my seat to feign nonchalance in hopes she follows my lead.

She does not, but the calm sadness in her expression holds more weight than theatrics.

“Please keep in mind I want the best for Lola. I am not accusing anyone of anything, and I know you’ll do whatever your daughter needs.”

I maintain an unaffected outward appearance despite the shredding of my soul as worst-case scenarios run through my head.

“Noted. Continue,” I instruct.

She studies me with a stillness so eerie the most hardened negotiators would fold.

“Lola is displaying symptoms of PTSD.”

The world turns ashen and sourness coats my tongue.

“PTSD. Post traumatic stress disorder,” I say.

It’s not a question. I know what the letters stand for, but in this moment, they make no sense. My daughter can’t be suffering from the same thing soldiers get diagnosed with when they come back from war. She’s only three years old.

Millie shatters my heart with her straightforward list, but I appreciate her brutal honesty as only a very few in the world would. I never would have been a successful businessman if I gave up when it was hard.

“Her terror when women scream, her agitation until we checked the entire boutique for dragons, her selective mutism, thumbsucking, and…” she glances at Lola, “she may have sensory issues that play a factor in her refusal to eat, but I’m afraid a large part is due to abuse.”

A million thoughts jumble in my mind, and the most ludicrous words escape my mouth.

“You think I—”

“No, sir. Not you,” she interrupts. “Anyone who had access to her could have caused this.”

“Which means I could have caused this,” I snarl.

She takes a deep breath, reaches across the table, and takes my hand. The serene certainty shining from her eyes centers me.

“The fact you’re this worried means you did not cause this. You are the most attentive, loving father I have ever known, but you’re only human. This is not your fault,” she insists.

“Then whose is it?” I demand.

I don’t really want to know, but my brain insists I find the answer.

She lowers her gaze and shakes her head, but in her eyes I glimpse her sorrow, fury, and hatred for the person who dared hurt my sweet Lola.

My lungs seize. I should have told her Regina isn’t dead long ago. Shame threatens to eat me alive.