Page 15 of His Obsession

Padraig raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. “And what if she finds out about the laundering? About what we’ve been using her foundation for?”

Callum leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the storm outside. “She won’t.”

Padraig’s silence spoke volumes, but Callum ignored it. He wasn’t about to explain himself—not to Padraig, not to anyone. Well, that wasn’t true. If the O’Neill asked, Callum wouldn’t lie to him, but using the Fitzwilliam Foundation to launder money had been Con’s idea in the first place. He liked that their money laundering had an altruistic outcome as well.

After a long moment, Padraig shifted, his tone turning pragmatic. “We need to figure out how to neutralize Bradford before he can do any more damage. I can dig into his connections, see if there’s leverage we can use.”

“Do it,” Callum said, his voice a low growl. “And make it quick. I won’t let him jeopardize everything we’ve built—or put Isolde in more danger.”

Padraig nodded, turning to leave, but paused at the door. “You’re protecting her like she’s one of ours. That’s… unexpected.”

Callum’s gaze flicked to him, his expression unreadable. “She is one of ours, Padraig. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

Padraig shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Whatever you say, but do take a look at that report.”

The door clicked shut, leaving Callum alone with the storm raging both inside and out. He reached for the espresso, but the bitterness on his tongue had nothing to do with the cooling liquid.

It had everything to do with the fact that Isolde Fitzwilliam was becoming more than just a liability.

She was becoming an obsession.

And obsessions, as Callum well knew, were dangerous things.

The rain continued to hammer against the windows of Callum’s office, the storm matching the violent energy swirling inside him. He stood near his desk, his dark eyes scanning the latest report Padraig had left for him. The paper trembled slightly in his hands, a testament to the rage simmering beneath his calm exterior.

Her name was there, nestled in the dense paragraphs of intelligence like a venomous snake poised to strike:Deirdre Lynch.

The cooling espresso on his desk was forgotten as Callum’s grip tightened on the report. The corners of the paper crinkled, but his gaze remained fixed on the damning connection between Deirdre and Bradford.

“Feeding him information,” he murmured under his breath, his tone low and dangerous. He wondered if her husband knew.

His ex-lover’s name tasted bitter on his tongue, dredging up memories he’d spent years burying. Deirdre Lynch—oncea complication he’d foolishly indulged, now married to Eoin Lynch, his rival. And, if this report was accurate, a key player in Bradford’s growing campaign against the O’Neill organization.

Callum tossed the report onto the desk, pacing to the window. The storm outside blurred the city lights, the water cascading down the glass like the chaos that threatened to spill over in his world.

He closed his eyes, and the past clawed its way back into his mind.

It had been a summer night, the kind Dublin rarely offered. Warm, with a soft breeze carrying the scents of the River Liffey and faint traces of jasmine from the garden. Callum had stood in the parlor of the O’Neill estate, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks as Deirdre paced the room, her stilettos clicking against the polished floors.

“You don’t mean this,” she’d said, her voice sharp, trembling with barely restrained fury. “You can’t mean this.”

“I do,” Callum had replied, his tone cold and unyielding. “It’s over, Deirdre.”

She’d stopped mid-step, turning to face him with a fire in her emerald eyes that had once captivated him. Now, that fire only fueled his resolve.

“You think you can just walk away?” she spat, her voice rising. “After everything I let you do to me?”

“It was all consensual, and I have a written contract to prove it,” he said coldly.

“I don’t give a damn about your written contract. Is that it? Because I said I didn’t want to do that anymore? How can you do this to me, to us?”

“There is no us,” he said evenly. “Not anymore.”

Her laugh was bitter, cutting through the air like a blade. “Because I value myself too much? Because I want more than just stolen nights and half-truths?”

“Because you don’t know how to stop,” he snapped, his temper flaring. “You don’t know when enough is enough, Deirdre. You push, and you manipulate, and you—” He broke off, exhaling sharply, reining himself in. “This has to end.”

Her face twisted with anger, but there was something darker beneath it—something calculating. “You think you’re untouchable, Callum Kavanagh. I’ll tell them what you did to me…”

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