Page 157 of Unholy Obsession

Of course, even now, he can’t stop playing God.

“If this fucking thing gets me,” his fists clench weakly, and he slams them against the mattress in an exhausted fury, “it’ll be up toyouto take on the mantle—to marry and produce sons who will continue the name. I’ve had Rotterdam compile a list of women from acceptable families who’ll produce good stock to continue our legacy.”

My stomach turns.

He didn’t want to see me for some last-gasp father-son reconciliation.

Of course not.

Even now, it’s about power.

Even now, it’s about control.

Even now, I am not his son. I’m an asset. A pawn. Just a thing to be wielded as an extension of himself, even after death.

The realization settles in me like lead.

I should have known better.

But somewhere, buried deep beneath all the fury, all the scars, all the years of distance—I wanted to believe.

Just for a moment, I wanted to believe.

And that’s the worst part of all.

“Would you like to pray, Father?” I ask, voice hollow.

He sneers, his lips twisting. “Did you listen to a thing I just said? I’m giving you instructions, boy. Listen!”

I nod once. “I heard you. But you’re also in this bed, and it might be one of the last times you and I ever speak.”

His glazed gaze sharpens for just a moment. “I’ll see you married and bedded to one of the women I’ve chosen for you before I leave this damned earth.”

I shake my head slowly, exhaling. “You? How are you going to manage that from this bed?”

He tries to lift himself onto his elbows but falls back from weakness. Still, his eyes are ice cold.

“I have my means. I’m not dead yet. I’m the most powerful man in the world.”

I let out a slow breath, forcing down the rage crawling up my throat. He’s always been like this. Clutching at control like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe it is.

“You’ll have to get an annulment from that little slut you ran to Vegas with, of course,” he sneers. “But that’s mostly taken care of. I’m the most powerful man in the world,” he repeats, full of impotent rage. “Don’t you know who I am?”

My breath stills in my chest. Because my attention is still frozen on the first part of his maniacal little rant.

“What do you know about Moira?”

I stand, towering over the deranged old man with his lingering delusions of power.

And then I remember the fear and confusion in Moira’s eyes as she left me that day. The way her hands trembled when she packed her bags. The way she wouldn’t—couldn’t—look me in the eye. And the fact that this fucker already tried to pay her off once to leave me.

Realization crashes into me, painful as needles spiking into my skin all over my body. Why haven’t I kept my eyes on him? I should have known he wouldn’t stop. I just saw no reason for him to press the issue. I didn’t realize that suddenly there was a deadline.

It’s all so clear now.

She didn’t want to leave me.

Shehadto.

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