Page 3 of His Obsession

“No,” Callum murmured, his tone chillingly calm. “He killed himself the moment he thought he could cross the wrong people. Fortunately, my people were here to clean up the mess so your gala isn’t tarnished.”

The words, spoken with such cold certainty, sent another shiver through her. She couldn’t reconcile the man holding her—so warm and solid—with the monster capable of such casual violence.

“Let me go,” she demanded, her voice firmer this time.

His chuckle was low and dark, the sound vibrating through her. “You’re not in a position to make demands, sweetheart.”

He leaned closer, his lips so close to her ear that she could feel the heat of his breath. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to walk back into that glittering little gala of yours, smile for the cameras, and pretend you didn’t see a damn thing. Because if you don’t…”

She froze, the understood threat in his words more terrifying than anything he could have said outright.

“My life,” she whispered, the words trembling on her lips, “depends on my silence, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly,” he said, his voice softening just enough to make her skin prickle. “You’re a smart girl, Isolde. I don’t think you’ll make this any harder than it needs to be.”

She glanced down the hallway, where the scene had been cleaned up as if nothing had happened. The efficiency was chilling, a stark reminder of the power he wielded.

“I don’t want any part of this,” she said, her voice shaking but resolute.

“You’re already a part of this,” Callum replied, his tone laced with something she couldn’t quite name—mockery, maybe, or something darker. “The question is, how well are you going to play your role?”

Her breath hitched as his hand slid from her waist, but the heat of his presence didn’t fade.

“Remember, love,” he murmured, his voice a dangerous caress, “silence is your safest choice.”

A surge of defiance flared in her chest. She wasn’t going to stand here, trembling under his control like a frightened doe. With a sudden burst of strength, she twisted out of his grasp, her movements fueled by raw adrenaline.

“Stay away from me,” she hissed, stepping back, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and fury.

Callum tilted his head, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Run, then,” he said, his voice low and lazy, as though the outcome had already been decided.

She didn’t wait for him to say more. Turning on her heel, she bolted toward the grand entrance, her steps silent against the marble floor. The cool night air hit her like a slap as she burst through the doors, the sound of the city enveloping her as she put her shoes back on.

But even as she fled, Callum’s laughter rang in her ears—low, rich, and maddeningly assured. It wasn’t the laugh of a man who had lost.

It was the laugh of a man who knew they weren’t done.

2

CALLUM

The Fitzwilliam Foundation office was a study in pristine order, all clean lines and understated elegance. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, illuminating Isolde as she stood near the central desk, her head bent over a stack of papers. Her ivory blouse and tailored skirt gave her an air of crisp professionalism, but Callum’s sharp eyes caught the subtle tremor in her hands as she shuffled the documents.

He leaned against the doorframe, his broad shoulders commanding the narrow entrance, exuding a calm that belied the storm of calculations running through his mind. His dark gaze swept over the room, taking in the polite smiles of the staff and the smooth cadence of Ciarán Dempsey’s voice as he presented the donation agreement to Isolde. Ciarán was the syndicate’s accountant and handled all the legitimate financial transactions for Con.

“It’s a significant contribution,” Ciarán said smoothly, sliding the papers across the desk. “I’m sure the Fitzwilliam Foundation will make excellent use of it.”

Callum didn’t bother to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Ciarán was playing the part of the loyal lieutenant well, as usual. Callum’s eyes, however, remained fixed on Isolde.

Her hand hovered over the document, pen poised. She hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, her eyes lifting to meet his. There it was again—that spark of intelligence, the fire that flickered even beneath the shadow of what she’d seen last night.

“Your boss has always been so generous, Mr. Kavanagh,” Isolde said, her voice steady but softer than he remembered. “I have to admit, the timing is… unusual. Over the years we’ve enjoyed the pleasure of your support, but this contribution is beyond generous. I promise we’ll make good use of it.”

Callum’s lips curved into a slow smile, deliberate and unapologetic. “Generosity is a virtue, Ms. Fitzwilliam. Isn’t that the foundation’s motto?”

Her gaze didn’t waver, even as her cheeks flushed. She straightened her posture, regaining control, but he caught the faintest flicker of tension in her expression.

“It is,” she replied evenly. “But it usually comes with a history of interest in our work. Forgive me if I seem ungrateful, but we’re not accustomed to donations of this size from Mr. O’Neill.”

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