Craving the Obsession (Possessive Billionaires, Precious Sweethearts #4)

Chapter 1 The End

Mia stared at the Sinclair Corporation building towering before her, its glass walls glittering with the reflection of the city lights.

From where she sat, she could see floors flickering with movement—warm light spilling out into the cold night, mocking her as if the building itself was alive while she sat abandoned outside.

She sat on a stone slab just outside the entrance, a narrow strip of marble edging lined with a few green plants, meant more for decoration than protection. Snowflakes fell steadily, melting into her thin dress and the light sweater clinging uselessly to her skin.

Her body was drenched, her skin raw from the icy wind, but her face was blank. She barely felt the snow anymore.

At the entrance, one of the security guards shifted uncomfortably. His eyes kept drifting toward the fragile figure sitting in the snow. He leaned closer to his colleague.

“That lady’s been sitting there for the last three hours,” he muttered, voice low but uneasy. “What is she even doing? Should I go tell her to leave? This is a corporate building, not some goddamn lounge.”

The second guard’s head snapped toward him, alarmed. He quickly grabbed the man’s arm before he could take a step forward. “Are you insane?” he hissed. “That’s Mr. Sinclair’s wife!”

The first guard frowned. “Mr. Sinclair? You mean… James Sinclair?” His throat went dry as the name left his lips. His posture straightened instantly, blood draining from his face. “The owner of this building? Our boss?”

“Yes, you fucking moron!” The other guard gave a quick nod, as if afraid even the whisper might be overheard. “She’s his wife.”

The first man staggered back to his post, shock written across his features. His eyes flicked back to the drenched woman, puzzled. “Then… why is she sitting there like that? Why doesn’t she go up to his office?”

“She’s not allowed in,” the second guard muttered, his voice dropping lower.

“Mr. Sinclair gave the order himself—his wife isn’t to be let through under any circumstances.

I heard it from Sheena, you know, that blonde who’s been at the front desk for over ten years?

She said he even told her to throw away anything his wife tries to send him. ”

The first guard’s mouth fell open. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Rich people… I never thought they’d treat their wives like this. Look at her. She doesn’t even look like one of them. She looks more like one of the women in my neighborhood who can barely make ends meet.”

“Shut your mouth,” the other guard snapped, his tone sharp. “We don’t know what goes on in their house. Don’t speak too much or we’ll both be in trouble.”

The first guard swallowed hard, falling silent. He turned his attention back to the steady 10 p.m. traffic, though his eyes still flicked to the lonely figure now and again.

Mia trembled when another gust of icy air whisked past, cutting through her drenched clothes. For a moment, her vision blurred, not from tears but from the sheer weight of exhaustion pressing down on her.

Her phone rang suddenly, snapping her back into awareness. With numb fingers, she lifted it to her ear.

“Madam?” Mrs. Maisel’s familiar voice, warm and kind, came through the line.

The maid of the Sinclair household sounded anxious.

“Have you dropped off dinner yet? It’s been hours since you left.

Did you give Mr. Sinclair the lunchbox with your own hands?

You cooked so carefully this afternoon—spent so many hours in the kitchen.

I haven’t seen you devote so much time to preparing a meal before.

You must have been really worried about his health…

” Her voice grew hopeful, almost excited. “Was Mr. Sinclair happy to see you?”

Silence stretched on Mia’s side of the line.

The snow settled on her lashes, her breath fogging in the cold air.

At last, she whispered, voice soft and quiet, “The receptionist didn’t let me in.

I handed her the lunchbox, but she refused to take it.

She said James told her that if I’m the one who brings food… she’s to throw it away.”

The other end of the call went quiet except for the sound of Mrs. Maisel’s troubled breathing.

There was a shuffle, as though the maid was pacing, before her voice returned—gentle, apologetic.

“Madam… why don’t you come home? It’s snowing so hard outside, you must be freezing. Should I send the driver to fetch you?”

“No need,” Mia murmured, and hung up.

She stared at the black screen of her phone for a long moment, then her thumb slid almost on its own, dialing another number.

James Sinclair.

The line rang for a long time before cutting off. She tried again. This time, the call connected.

“What is it?” James’s voice came through—impatient, clipped.

Mia’s lips curved into the faintest smile, one that didn’t reach her large, dark eyes.

Her long, silky hair fell around her shoulders, slightly damp from the snow earlier, and her skin was pale, almost porcelain, highlighting the delicate sweep of her cheekbones.

Her voice was calm, almost fragile. “Are you done with work yet? When will you come home? I have something I need to talk to you about.”

“I’m busy,” James cut in coldly. “Whatever it is, solve it yourself.” The line went dead, leaving only the harsh beep ringing in her ear.

Her hand stayed frozen, the phone still pressed to her ear though the line had long gone dead.

She stared blankly ahead. Her body sat motionless, but inside, her heart pounded painfully, betraying the cold mask on her face.

‘I’ve been married to you for five years,’ she thought bitterly.

‘I’ve taken care of everything—big or small.

Every detail of your life. Every burden, every responsibility…

’ Her phone slipped from her fingers, dangling loosely before falling against the box of ashes placed beside her on the stone slab.

She rested her palm against the icy surface, the chill piercing her skin.

‘You simply don’t care about anything that has to do with me. ’

The call from a week ago still echoed in her ears, the voices of the doctors refusing to fade.

‘Are you a relative of Mr. Ericson and Mrs. Leah Bennet? They were in a car accident… they didn’t survive. Can you come to claim their bodies?’

Mia sat frozen in the dark, the words replaying again and again until they hollowed her out.

Her lips trembled as she whispered, barely audible, “How wonderful it would have been to sit with Mom and Dad in the snow. To watch the snowfall together. Mom would have loved it… she’s always loved the snow. ”

Her hands curled into fists. A shudder racked through her, her chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths.

“Wait—no. Mom and Dad are… dead.”

The thought struck her like ice as the chilling reality sank in.

Her face turned pale, the cold creeping through her bones like a living thing.

The darkness in front of her seemed to thicken, a heavy curtain drawn across her vision.

Even with her eyes open, she could see nothing—only an endless void.

She closed them briefly, trying to shut out the world, but then another image appeared in that void.

James Sinclair. Her husband.

And with that image came a bitter echo, reverberating through her mind: ‘Why did you never care about me?’

But silence only grew darker around her, pressing in on every side.

‘If I need to go somewhere, I must go by myself. If I am angry, I must calm myself. If I want to cry, I must pacify myself. If I am sick, I must go to the hospital alone… as if it all has nothing to do with you at all.’

Mia opened her eyes and stood slowly, her body trembling from the cold and the weight of her thoughts.

She bent down and lifted the wooden box of her parents' ashes from the stone slab, clutching it tightly against her chest. She slid it inside her sweater, pressing it close to her body as if to keep it safe and warm.

Her other hand reached for her phone, and finally, she began walking away from the building, her steps quiet against the snow-covered ground.

As she reached the curb, a cab was waiting.

She slipped inside without a word. The engine rumbled to life, and warmth slowly seeped into her frozen limbs.

Her gaze drifted to the empty passenger seat beside her, where she had left a stack of documents hours earlier.

With careful fingers, she gathered them into her lap.

At the top of the papers, in bold, authoritative letters, it read: Divorce Agreement.

She picked up the papers, her thumb brushing the sharp edge. She read the words again, but her heart remained still.

No sadness. No anger. No relief. Nothing.

Her fingers tightened around the wooden box in her lap, holding it carefully while her blank gaze shifted toward the window. The city lights flashed past, bright and fleeting.

‘Since I have to do everything by myself… then why should I keep you in my life?’ she thought, closing her eyes.

An hour later, the cab carried her to James’s mansion.

When it stopped, Mia stepped out silently, her slippers wet and cold from the snow that had seeped in.

She walked the long driveway to the massive mansion, each step heavy, numbing her feet.

The grand doors opened before she reached them, and Mrs. Maisel appeared, a petite woman with silver-streaked hair pinned neatly, sharp eyes widening at the sight.

“Madam, you’re drenched! Aren’t you freezing? It’s bitter cold outside—” she exclaimed, hurrying forward.

Mia didn’t answer. She didn’t even slow. She moved past the maid and stepped inside, climbing the grand staircase without a word. Her footsteps echoed through the silent house.

Mrs. Maisel called after her, worry lacing her voice. “Madam, shall I prepare a hot bath? I’ll set out dry clothes for you—something warm—”

But only silence followed. Mia didn’t look back. Her presence alone was a shadow moving up the stairs.

The maid’s fingers tightened helplessly at her side, concern flickering in her eyes as she watched Mia disappear into her bedroom.

In her bedroom, Mia went straight to the suitcase already packed by the cupboard and dragged it toward the door. But her gaze snagged on the large portrait above the bed—her wedding picture with James.

She stared.

In the photo, her younger self wore a bright, hopeful smile. James stood beside her, his hands in his pockets, his face holding only a polite, distant expression.

Looking at it now, Mia realized how much she had changed.

She remembered the day vividly: the excitement, the anticipation of marrying a man she thought would love her as deeply as her father loved her mother.

She had believed in the same devotion, the same warmth, the same promise of care and affection.

Back then, she had been full of hope, her heart open, expecting a life of shared love and understanding.

Her eyes burned as she whispered inside her heart, ‘So much hope, so many expectations. And now… nothing.’

The eyes staring at that photograph were blank now. No matter how long she stared, she couldn’t find herself in that picture anymore.

Mia blinked and turned away from the wedding portrait. Without sparing it another glance, she pulled her suitcase behind her and walked out of the room. Her steps echoed softly as she descended the stairs, her suitcase in hand, heading toward the exit.

Just as she reached for the door, it opened from the other side.

James stepped inside, his tall frame wrapped in a heavy overcoat dusted with fresh snow. Dark hair, almost black, glistened with melting flakes, falling just enough to frame a sharp, chiseled face.

In Mia’s memory, he had always looked softer, almost boyish, with a gentler jaw and a lighter, more open expression.

But now, five years later, he felt different.

His jaw was strong, lips perfectly shaped, and his eyes a piercing gray that seemed to measure everything and everyone.

The suitcase in his hand—likely carrying the laptop he never parted with.

With an effortless shrug of his shoulders, he shook off the snow clinging to his coat and stepped into the warm glow of the mansion.

His stride was poised, unhurried. But the moment he entered the living room, his eyes caught sight of her suitcase. Then his gaze lifted and landed on Mia.

For a heartbeat, silence stretched.

Then, his eyes met hers. “What’s with the suitcase?” he asked.

Then, as if dismissing the question and her presence altogether, his gaze slid away. “Mrs. Maisel,” he called out sharply, “take my things a—”

“Let’s get a divorce.”

Mia’s calm voice cut through his.