Page 22 of Cruel Obsession

Everyone wants something from me.

My father wants obedience. Wants me to fall in line, marry strategically, ignore his trafficking operation like a good little soldier.

Rosanna wants security. Wants a father for her child and a ring on her finger and the illusion of love wrapped in Laurov protection.

Yanis wants peace. Wants the fantasy version of a family that died with Mishka.

And none of them give a single fuck about what I want.

Which is space.

Freedom.

A life that isn’t soaked in blood and guilt and the ghost of a twelve-year-old boy I killed with my own hands.

I walk to the window. The city sprawls below. Somewhere down there, people are living normal lives. Going to jobs they hate. Arguing with their partners. Worrying about bills and traffic and what to make for dinner.

Simple problems.

I’d kill for simple problems.

The office feels suffocating now—walls too close, air too thin. I turn away from the window and head for the door,needing to move, needing to do something other than sit here drowning in thoughts I can’t control.

The hallway is empty. Silent.

I walk without direction—just moving through the building like motion alone can outrun what’s chasing me.

It doesn’t work.

It never does.

Because the thing chasing me is inside my own head.

A memory fifteen years old that won’t die.

A woman three days fresh that won’t fade.

And both completely and utterly out of my reach.

Chapter Six

Mirabel

The apartment is too quiet.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop burning hot against my thighs, while Diane perches on the armrest beside me. She’s been here for the last hour, letting me talk—really talk—about Dad. About the bills. About the impossible math of trying to save someone with three thousand dollars and a registrar’s salary.

“This is awful, Mira.” Her hand lands on my shoulder, warm and solid. “I’m so sorry.”

My throat tightens. I force myself to swallow past it.

“I just… I don’t know what to do.” The words scrape coming out. “I can’t lose him too. Not after Mom. Not after—”

I stop myself before I say her name.

Debra.

Even thinking it feels like pressing on a bruise that never heals.