Page 12 of His Obsession

Isolde’s chest tightened at the truth in those words. Callum didn’t strike her as a man who ever stopped.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch, the sound jarring in the quiet office. She fished it out, glancing at the screen.

A text from an unknown number.

Did you tell Walsh yet? Or do I need to handle Lynch myself? –C

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. The audacity of him, the nerve to intrude on her life so casually, so completely, set her nerves on edge. But beneath the anger was something she hated to admit—a flicker of anticipation, of thrill.

“Is everything all right?” Siobhan asked, her voice cutting through the haze.

Isolde forced a smile, slipping the phone back into her clutch. “Yes. Just a work thing.”

Siobhan didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. “If you say so.”

As they finished their wine and conversation drifted to lighter topics, Isolde couldn’t shake the importance of the message—the warning. Callum wasn’t just in her life—he was in her head. And no matter how much she tried to push him out, he always seemed to find a way back in.

When she left the gallery later that night, the cool Dublin air did little to calm her racing thoughts. Her driver pulled up to the curb, but before she climbed into the car, she glanced around the quiet street.

A shadow moved in the distance, disappearing around a corner before she could make out who—or what—it was.

Her pulse quickened.

She told herself it was nothing, just her imagination. But as the car pulled away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.

And if it wasn’t Callum, she couldn’t be sure who it was, but Lynch or someone working for him would certainly be in the running. And why did the idea of Callum watching her both thrilland comfort her? Why did she take—knowing who and what he was—comfort in believing he was watching over her? And why, if it wasn’t Callum, did she feel the icy fingers of dread running up and down her spine?

The low hum of city traffic surrounded her as Isolde stepped out of the car, the cool Dublin air wrapping around her. She adjusted her coat and glanced up at the Fitzwilliam Foundation’s headquarters, its tall glass façade gleaming faintly under the streetlights. Ted Walsh moved beside her, a quiet but resolute presence, his eyes scanning the area with the practiced vigilance of a former cop.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, trying to keep the irritation from her voice.

“Yes, I did,” Walsh replied curtly, his gaze not wavering. “Especially after the warning you got today. Callum Kavanagh doesn’t throw out names like Eoin Lynch for fun. If he says there’s a threat, I’m staying until you’re safely out of here.”

Isolde sighed, the tightness in her shoulders creeping higher. “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself. You don’t have to babysit me.”

Walsh didn’t even look at her. “Humor me.”

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t argue further. Deep down, she knew Walsh was right. Callum’s warning about Lynch’s interest in her wasn’t something to dismiss lightly, and she wasn’t naïve enough to think she was untouchable. Besides she was witness to a murder… that couldn’t be a good thing. Why, oh why, had she gone to look for that guest list?

They stepped inside the building, the familiar warmth of the lobby easing some of her unease. The security guard nodded at them as they passed, and the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

“Just another hour or two,” Isolde said as the elevator began its ascent. “Then I’m calling it a night.”

“Take all the time you need,” Walsh replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t press further. The elevator doors opened to the foundation’s main offices, the space eerily quiet after hours. The faint hum of the building’s climate control system was the only sound as they walked down the corridor to her office.

Isolde slipped out of her coat and draped it over a chair before settling behind her desk. Walsh positioned himself near the door, his arms crossed, his sharp gaze scanning the room.

“I’m not used to being shadowed like this,” she muttered, flipping through the stack of documents she’d left earlier in the day.

“Get used to it,” Walsh replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I suppose if I don’t cooperate, you’ll report it to my father.”

“I’m not sure how effective your da would be up against Lynch. I’d be more inclined to report it to Kavanaugh.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

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