Page 87 of Sinful Obsession

Viktor’s cologne lingered on the leather, a cloying reminder of the chaos Cassian had just unleashed.

I couldn’t work here, not with Viktor’s scent tainting the air.

The office would need to be gutted—new furniture, new paint, anything to erase this day.

But more than that, I had to protect my twins.

Cassian could control my job, my movements, but my kids were my line in the sand. He could never know about them.

Hours later, I maneuvered my car through the city’s afternoon traffic, the hum of the engine a faint comfort as I headed to pick up Asher and Aria from kindergarten.

My eyes flicked to the rearview mirror every few seconds, half-expecting to see one of Cassian’s sleek black cars tailing me.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, willing my nerves to settle.

My phone buzzed inside my purse.

When I pulled it out and saw the school’s number flashing on the screen, my stomach plummeted. I answered on the first ring, dread already clawing at my chest.

“Mrs. Charlotte,” the teacher’s voice came, tight with urgency, “there’s been an incident with your children.”

“What happened?” I asked, my heart racing as I swerved into the next lane, accelerating.

“Aria drew a love emoji on a Maybach parked outside the school, and Asher painted over it, damaging the vehicle. The owner is a powerful man, and his assistant is demanding compensation—or they’ll take legal action against the parents.”

My breath caught.

My kids—always so spirited, but this? “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said, ending the call and pressing the gas harder.

Repairing a car was no issue; the money I’d taken from Cassian’s card six years ago was still sitting in my account, more than enough to cover any damage.

But the thought of who they’d crossed—a “powerful man,” the teacher had said—sent a chill down my spine.

In this city, “powerful” often meant dangerous, and with Cassian already tightening his grip, I couldn’t afford another enemy.

The school’s parking lot was nearly empty when I pulled in.

Most parents had already picked up their kids, leaving the grounds eerily quiet.

I spotted the teacher, Mrs. Grayson, standing beside the principal, both looking grim. “Where are my kids?” I demanded, my voice sharper than intended.

Mrs. Grayson pointed toward a sleek black Maybach parked near the playground, its glossy surface marred by streaks of red paint and a crudely drawn heart. “They’re with the owner,” she said.

I hurried toward the car, my heart pounding.

Asher and Aria stood by the vehicle, their small faces pale, eyes wide with fear.

No one else was there—no assistant, no owner. Relief flickered, but it was short-lived. A voice to my left froze me in place.

“Boss, thank God you’re here,” a man said, his tone agitated. “Some brats scribbled nonsense on your car. I’ve already notified the school—we’re suing their parents.”

The “boss” he addressed was engrossed in his phone, his back to me. Then he spoke, and the world tilted. “Good.”

The assistant hesitated. “But the kids—“

Cassian’s head snapped up, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What about the kids? You didn’t lay a hand on them, did you? Because I’ll put a bullet in you if you even thought about it.’

The assistant’s voice trembled. “Boss, those kids... they look like you.”