Page 38 of Sweet Obsession
Twelve months of living in separate wings. No crossing paths unless absolutely necessary.
And then? Freedom.
But it wasn’t freedom. Not really. Not when the contract read like a prison sentence dressed in silk.
Rules. So many rules.
No public disagreements.
Appearances of affection mandatory at designated events.
No unauthorized visitors.
No interference in Bratva affairs.
Personal boundaries must be respected. No unsolicited emotional intimacy.
I blinked at that last line.
So he didn’t want me getting close. Not even by accident. God forbid I ever touched the ice under all that steel.
He didn’t just reject love. He forbade it. Did he think he was unlovable?
Or was he scared that if I ever did, he wouldn’t know what to do with it?
At the bottom of the contract, a final clause:
Failure to comply will result in nullification of protection. Immediate return to familial custody.
Translation: If I slipped up, he’d hand me back to the man who sold me like livestock.
I stared at the words, my hands beginning to tremble. “Why twelve months?”
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. His coat had fallen open, and for the first time I noticed the way his shirt clung to his frame, the muscle beneath coiled tight, like a man at war with his own skin.
“Because that’s how long it will take to complete the handover to the Mexican supplier. I will no longer need your father’s shipments.”
Mexico. Of course. Everything about me was temporary and tactical. He said it like it was business. Like it wasn’t my life he was drawing a red line through.
“And what happens then?” I whispered.
“You disappear,” he said. “Quietly. Cleanly. Your family retains their dignity. I retain my power.”
“And me?” I asked, voice like ice. “What do I retain?”
He hesitated. Just for a breath, but I saw it. Guilt.
“You get your life,” he said finally. “You get out.”
