Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 170

A Lesson in Monsters.

Sage

Mornings are haunted by ghosts—not the kind that have passed on, but those still very much alive. These are the restless souls who stir before dawn, weighed down by silence pressing hard against their chests, where sleep never lingers long enough to offer comfort. Like clockwork, I rise before the sun’s first light. The compound lies still, dew sparkling on the blades of grass, and the air is crisp enough to bite at my skin. Usually, the only sounds are my footsteps and the gentle chorus of birds greeting the day. But today, something else breaks the quiet—a faint, pulsing glow coming from Diego’s cabin. He’s awake. That’s not unusual in itself, but the reason why is.

Slipping on my coat, I make my way across the yard, my boots barely making a sound on the gravel. As I draw nearer, a subtle noise becomes clearer—the soft hum of electronics, the unmistakable buzz that in this family means only one thing: surveillance. The door stands unlocked. I nudge it open just enough to peek inside.

There he is, sitting at his desk, eyes glued to a dozen small screens. The cold light from the monitors flickers across his face, casting shifting shades of blue and gray. He doesn’t notice me immediately. On the screens, I catch glimpses of movement—rooms, shadows, and a familiar set of walls I shouldn’t be seeing from here: the Ricci estate. So, he’s still watching. The same cameras I saw him install last night.

I lean casually against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Trouble sleeping?”

He doesn’t startle or turn around. Instead, he leans back slightly, embodying that calm stillness that suggests he was expecting company at some point.

“Couldn’t stop thinking,” he replies.

I step fully inside, letting the door close softly behind me. The cabin smells faintly of cedar and oil, and there’s the lingering aroma of coffee—the one he always claims doesn’t keep him awake. “Thinking about her?”

He stays silent, and that silence says more than words ever could.

“She’s interesting,” he finally admits. “Not like the others. You can tell by how she moves—like she’s holding her breath, waiting for the world to mess up.”

“She’s Ricci blood,” I remind him.

“That world usually does,” he says, glancing up at me.

His eyes hold a look I know too well—not just curiosity or desire, but a sharp fascination, focused and intense. It’s the same expression I once wore, the one that comes when you’re willing to risk everything for a cause you believe in.

“What’s your angle with this, Diego?” I ask, moving to stand behind him. “What’s the plan?”

He shrugs, not defensively, but with quiet honesty. “I’m trying to learn who she really is. People act predictable when they think no one’s watching. I want to see her when she’s not putting on a show.”

“Why?”

After a pause, he answers softly, “Because she doesn’t belong there.”

That stops me cold.

“She’s a Ricci,” I say again, this time with less certainty.

“He’s not entirely,” Diego insists. “Blood doesn’t always mean loyalty.”

The screen flickers, replaying the morning footage. Her throat is bruised where Marco’s hand had been. My stomach tightens. I don’t ask how long he’s had that video. He looks at me, daring me to say he’s wrong.

“I’m not going to tell you to stop,” I say quietly.

That catches him off guard. His brow furrows. “You’re not?”

“No,” I reply. “But I’m warning you—be careful what you become while you’re watching.”

His confusion shifts to something sharper. “What do you mean?”

I lean against the desk, crossing my arms. “Obsession and purpose can look identical until they don’t. One sharpens you; the other devours you from the inside out. You think you’re protecting her, but one day you’ll wake up and realize you’ve become the very thing you despise.”

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