Page 8 of Reckless Obsession

And then I ran. Disappeared for about two years because staying would have meant destroying both of us.

Anger creeps in as I wash off and get dressed for work. I move on autopilot—shirt, tie, reflection staring back at me like an accusation. I barely recognize the man looking back.

He looks composed and controlled.

He isn’t.

My day’s ruined before it starts, a fitting punishment for the yearning that won’t die, the guilt that defines me, and I deserve every second.

❧

The lift doors slide open as I arrive on the firm’s executive floor. The familiar hum of voices and ringing phones greets me, reminding me that the world keeps going even when my mind is a mess.

“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair.”

I barely manage a nod before Grace falls into step beside me, tablet already in hand, her heels clicking on the marble floor as she matches my pace.

“You have a ten o’clock meeting with the board about the Jimmy & Co. construction case,” she says quickly. “The compliance documents for the Swiss account require your signature, and Mr. St. Laurent’s case—”

“I asked for those yesterday,” I snap, voice tense, glaring at her as if she’s the cause of my headache.

“You got them. They’re on your desk.” She glances at her screen, unfazed. “Your father called. He says you’ll be handling the Jackson case.”

I grind my teeth, exhaling slowly to keep the rage from boiling over. Of course he is. Can’t let me breathe without his shadow creeping in.

We reach my office. She swings the door open, still talking, words tumbling as if she’s afraid to stop.

“How do you do that?” I cut her off as my briefcase thuds onto the desk, heavier than it has any right to be.

“Do what?” She blinks rapidly behind her glasses, caught off guard.

“Have this much energy before nine in the morning.”

She opens her mouth, thinks better of it, then shrugs.

“I’m used to it,” she says with an unconvinced smile.

I sigh, shrug off my suit jacket, drape it over the chair, and eye the towering stack of files. An avalanche waiting to bury me.

“Let my father know I won’t be handling the Jackson case,” I say, rolling up my sleeves. “He can assign it to someone else.”

“Mr. Sincl—” she starts, stress creeping into her voice. But my phone rings, cutting her off.

I glance at the screen: Anton Petrov.

I answer. “Anton.”

There’s a pause.

“Maksim’s been arrested.”

The words hit slowly, like cold water sinking into my bones. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grace slip quietly out of my office and close the door behind her.

I shut my eyes.

“For what?” I ask, already knowing it won’t be minor.

“Assault,” Anton says. “Fight at a club downtown around two this morning. He was taken in. I just got the call.”