Page 43 of Sinful Obsession
He ran a hand through his dark hair. “I was broken, Charlotte. Destroyed. I hated myself for the pain I’d caused you—every word, every act. I stood on rooftops at night, staring at the city, wondering if I’d find you dead or if I’d end myself first.” His voice cracked, a rare fracture in his control, and my chest tightened.
“Then, a year later, I got a lead,” he said, stopping to face me, his blue eyes haunted. “A friend of yours—Ethan—had you in his house. When I found him, you were there, alive but... changed.”
“Ethan?” I asked, my voice trembling, the name a spark in the fog. “Who is he?”
A shadow crossed his face. “He was your friend, someone you trusted. He’s gone now, back to his family in Chicago. I made sure of it.” His tone held a possessive edge.
I nodded, my mind racing, already plotting ways to find this Ethan.
If he’d sheltered me, he might be one of the few I could trust—unlike Luca, Artem, my father, or even Vincent, my younger brother, whose call had stirred a vague sense of betrayal.
“So... how was I kidnapped?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Cassian’s eyes darkened, his hands clenching into fists. “After you left me, your father and my brother, Luca, moved against you. They had you kidnapped, locked in a psych ward. They pumped you full of drugs—sedatives, hallucinogens—until you were seeing shadows that weren’t there, hearing voices thatdidn’t exist. They broke you, Charlotte, to keep you from me, from your legacy.”
My breath caught, my vision blurring as I pressed a hand to my stomach, hiding the tremor.
A psych ward?
Drugged?
“And Ethan?” I asked, my voice shaking. “How did he find me?”
“He tracked you down before I could,” Cassian said, his voice bitter. “He pulled you out, hid you in his house. When I found you, you were... damaged. From what I’d done to you in our marriage, from what they did in that ward. I tried to win you back, Charlotte. I did everything—flowers, apologies, promises to change—but you were too far gone. You asked for a divorce, said it was the only way to heal. I granted it, hoping we could start fresh.”
“But you wanted more. You demanded to leave New York, to start over in a new city. You were self-harming—cutting, starving yourself. I was terrified I’d wake up to find you’d taken your life. I tried to keep you, begged you to stay, but your mind was set. You said a fresh start would save you.”
“So you let me go?” I asked, my voice barely audible, my chest tight with the weight of his story.
“I did,” he said, his voice heavy with regret.
He pulled a chair forward, its legs scraping the floor, and sat facing me, his blue eyes raw. “But not entirely. The day you left, I got on a plane. Tracked you. Followed you to the city you moved to.”
“I watched you from the shadows—cameras in your apartment, bugs in your phone, a telescope from the building across the street. I hacked your emails, trailed you to coffee shops, stood outside your window at night, watching you sleep.”
His voice was low, confessional, but the creepiness of his obsession sent a chill down my spine. “For two months, I lived in your shadow, Charlotte. You were... alive again. Making friends—women, never men, keeping your promise to me. You were healing, and I was happy, even from a distance.
A shiver tore through me. “You stalked me.”
He didn’t flinch. “I protected you. I counted down the months until you swore you’d come back to me.” His voice broke for the first time. “But then I got the call. My sister was kidnapped. And she’s all I have left, my only family.
“Elodie...” I whispered.
“Yes. I went back to New York to tear the city apart for her. I shouldn’t have left you. Because the very day I stopped watching, you vanished. Kidnapped.”
My heart hammered. “I was taken that same day?” I asked, my breath catching, the nightmare’s masked man flashing in my mind.
Cassian’s gaze sharpened. “Yes.”
“Whoever it was, they were close. Close enough to take you from under my nose. I’ve gutted my enemies one by one, but I’ll find the one who dared touch you. I swear it.”
His words pressed on me like a vice. I tried to form pictures, flashes, anything to bridge the empty black years in my mind. But nothing came.
His story—our story—remained just that: words. And I was left staring at him, desperate for memory, while he looked at me like he already owned every piece of me I’d lost.
I looked down at the faint burn of the ring still etched into my fingers, my voice trembling. “Was my dream a memory?” I asked, my voice trembling, the nightmare’s chill lingering in my bones. “The boat, the masked man—was that part of the years I lost?”
“Could be.” His answer was flat.
