Page 35 of Cruel Obsession

The moment the door to my office swings open without a knock, I know exactly who it is.

Sergei Tulikov strides in like he owns the fucking place, flanked by two men built like industrial refrigerators. His hair is slicked back, face flushed with that particular shade of anger that only a combination of money and wounded pride can create.

Blyad.

Exactly the shit I don’t need today.

The space smells of leather and gun oil—I’d cleaned my Makarov earlier, a ritual that always leaves my hands steadier. The weapon sits locked in my desk drawer now, close enough to grab if needed. I deliberately don’t reach for it.

My mind is still tangled in thoughts of the woman… Mirabel. Of that stubborn lift of her chin when she refused to be intimidated, the slight tremble in her fingers as she signed the contract, the scent of her perfume lingering in my office hours after she left. I’ve spent the entire morning replaying our meeting, searching for signs she knows more than she’s letting on.

And now thismudakinterrupts me.

I don’t stand. Don’t acknowledge him beyond a cold stare as he plants himself in front of my desk, hands braced on the polished surface, leaning forward like proximity might intimidate me.

“Did you think you could get away with humiliating my daughter?” Spit flies from his lips. “She is pregnant with your child!”

I lean back in my chair, drawing out the silence until I see the muscle in his jaw start to twitch.

“I doubt it’s my child, Sergei.”

His eyes widen, bulging with fury. “What the fuck do you mean?”

“Well,” I say, dragging the word out, “I’m not going into detail about my non-existent sex life with your daughter, but let’s just say there’s a good chance the baby isn’t mine.”

The color drains from his face before rushing back twice as intense. “Yobani urod!How dare you! My daughter was engaged to you! How dare you assume that she slept with someone else. My little girl is an innocent!”

Yeah, right.

Dolboyob.

I pick up a pen, turning it between my fingers, watching the light catch the silver barrel instead of looking at him. A deliberate dismissal.

“I will need a DNA test,” I say. “If the baby is mine, I will take full responsibility. But I have no plans to raise someone else’s child.”

“You can’t talk about my daughter like that!” Sergei shouts, slamming his fist down hard enough to rattle my laptop. “She is not a whore.”

I finally meet his gaze, letting the cold fury I’ve been containing seep into my voice. “I didn’t say she was. I want a DNA test. Can I help you with anything else, Tulikov?”

His eyes narrow, calculating. The shift is immediate—from outraged father to the businessman who’s built an empire through extortion and strategic alliances. This is the real Sergei Tulikov, the one who only pretends to care about his daughter when it’s convenient. The same man who has paraded Rosanna before potential suitors since she was sixteen, using her beauty as a bargaining chip in his deals.

“Da,” he grumbles, straightening his tie with fingers thick as sausages. “We need to find a solution for the financial loss you caused, Arkady.”

Now the fucker’s talking. I knew he was here for money, not because of his daughter.

“What do you want?” I ask after some silence.

“Compensation,” he says, a smile spreading across his face that reminds me of oil slicking over water. “I want Empire Royale. I want you to transfer it to my name. Then I’ll forget about your fuck-up at the wedding and the financial loss it caused.”

My body goes still. The kind of stillness that comes the moment before violence erupts.

Empire Royale is my crown jewel. The casino I built from nothing, the one that caters to Russian oligarchs with enough disposable income to buy small countries. The one legitimate business I own that generates enough clean money to fund everything else. And the fucker wants to take that away.

“Forget it,” I say without hesitation.

Sergei’s laugh is ugly. “You think you have a choice? Your father—”

“Leave my father out of this.”