Page 48 of Reckless Obsession

I pause without turning around.

“I hope you won’t bail on me again,” she says, a hint of hope in her voice.

My eyes meet hers, and this time I give her one of my cocky, playful smiles.

“No promises, Joanna.”

I leave before she can read me any longer.

Chapter 10

TRISTAN

The evening air is filled with the sound of rushing water and crackling metal as firefighters work quickly and accurately around the wreckage of my car, extinguishing the lingering flames. Steam emanates from the charred shell, curling into the cold air as if the vehicle is exhaling its final breath.

Around me, people whisper.

Office workers linger along the sidewalk in small clusters, their voices hushed but eager, phones lifted to capture something they’ll replay later with exaggerated shock. Someone gasps when a section of the hood gives in, collapsing inward with a warped, metallic groan.

I watch it all the way someone might watch a stage performance they didn’t bother buying tickets for. Detached, mildly curious, and, if I’m being honest, faintly entertained.

Five months.

That’s how long I owned the car before it turned into a charred skeleton outside my office building. A shame, really. It had been a beautiful machine.

My hand slips into my coat pocket, retrieving my phone with unhurried ease. The screen lights up softly in my palm, and I reopen the message I had read only minutes earlier—just before Grace burst into my office, breathless and wide-eyed, as she told me my car was on fire.

The next time you come down my throat and I see regret or anything other than pride that I took your cock so well, I won’t just burn your car. I’ll burn your house. And I’ll make sure you’re in it.

I had ignored it at first.

But when Grace came barreling in, panic written all over her face, I knew immediately he hadn’t been bluffing.

Then again… when has Maksim ever bluffed?

I read the message again as the chaos around me fades into something distant and irrelevant, like background noise in a poorly mixed film. Something dark and quietly amused curls low in my chest, and a small chuckle escapes before I can stop it. It isn’t loud or theatrical, but it’s enough to make the man standing beside me shift uncomfortably, casting me a glance he quickly looks away from.

Maksim Petrov.

Impulsive. Brilliant. Beautifully unstable. He acts too quickly and intensely, like someone who flips a board the moment the game stops going his way. There’s something almost admirable about that kind of honesty.

My phone disappears back into my pocket just as my black Mustang glides past the wreck and comes to a smooth stop at the curb beside me.

Right on time.

Charlie steps out of the driver’s side, his posture composed, his movements efficient in that quiet way that suggests he’s used to handling situations that don’t require questions. His gaze flicks briefly to what remains of my car before returning to me.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, a hint of amusement threading through his voice. “That’s completely wrecked. How did that even happen?”

I shrug, taking the key he offers without so much as a glance toward the burnt shell behind me.

“Electrical issue,” I say smoothly.

Charlie huffs a quiet laugh, clearly not convinced but wise enough not to press.

“Your mother heard about this,” he adds, slipping his hands into his pockets. “She’s worried.”

Of course she is. News travels fast when it carries spectacle with it. It takes a small, deliberate effort not to roll my eyes.