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CEO'S OBSESSION

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Arielle

I didn’t cry after leaving that hotel room.

Tears were for the old me.

The one who believed in justice, who believed in truth.

The one who believed people like Dominic Blackwell didn’t walk away from tragedies untouched.

But I knew better now.

Last night wasn’t about pleasure. It was a transaction. A test. A taste of how far I’d go to make him pay.

And he failed.

Beautifully.

My heels clicked across the pavement as I left the hotel, head high, heart armored. I didn’t dare look back. Not when my skin still hummed from his touch. Not when his scent clung to me like a memory that refused to be washed away.

The city glowed around me—lights blurring into gold and crimson streaks against the early morning haze. I pulled my coat tighter and ducked into the nearest cab, ignoring the way my hands trembled in my lap.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

I hesitated.

“Home,” I whispered.

A lie.

Because I didn’t have a home anymore. Not since Elara died.

Her apartment had become a mausoleum of unopened letters and abandoned dreams. Her baby’s tiny shoes still sat by the door. Her scent still lingered on the blankets. And every time I walked in, it felt like I was breaking into a memory I didn’t deserve to keep.

I pressed a hand over my chest, as if I could stop the ache by force.

But the pain had learned to live with me.

Like a second skin.

My phone buzzed.

A single photo stared back at me. Elara, three months pregnant, beaming in her lab coat as she held a sonogram picture in one hand and a cup of noodles in the other. Her silly cravings. Her soft giggles. Her endless faith in a world that betrayed her.

A world led by men like Dominic Blackwell.

She worked under his hospital’s wing. She’d been silenced when she filed a complaint. Harassed. Branded a liability. Terminated with no explanation just days after disclosing her pregnancy. The official story painted her as unstable. Irresponsible.

The truth?

She was destroyed.

Her car veered off the road a week later.

The autopsy said stress. Fatigue. Emotional distress.

I said murder.

And now, she was gone.

But her daughter wasn’t.

Hope.

My niece. My responsibility. My only reason for holding it together. She was barely two now—chubby cheeks, big eyes that reminded me too much of Elara’s. She deserved more than lullabies and broken promises. She deserved justice.

That’s why I built a new identity.

I trained for this. Learned the lingo. Faked the documents. Played the game until it felt natural. Until “Ava Monroe” became more than a disguise—it became a weapon.

I became everything Dominic wanted.

And last night, I gave him a piece of me… just enough to haunt him.

Because now, step two begins.

The glass tower of Blackwell Enterprises rose into the sky like a symbol of greed polished into perfection. I stood beneath it, my reflection warping in the lobby doors as I adjusted my blazer.

Confidence. Power. Control.

I walked in with the grace of a woman who had never known fear.

“Ava Monroe,” I said at the front desk. “New executive assistant to Mr. Blackwell.”

The receptionist blinked, typed, and blinked again.

“Um… Yes, right. You’re on his list. Floor 48.”

Perfect.

The elevator ride felt like a countdown. My heart didn’t race. It pulsed in slow, deliberate beats. I thought of Elara. Of Hope. Of Dominic’s hands on my skin, the way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

Well, let the game begin.

The doors opened.

He was standing by the window, back to me, looking down at the city like it belonged to him. The black of his suit, the sharp cut of his jaw, the command in his posture—it should’ve scared me.

It didn’t.

He turned. His eyes locked onto mine.

And for a moment… he didn’t breathe.

Good.

“Mr. Blackwell,” I said, stepping forward with a practiced smile. “I’m Ava. Your new assistant.”

His brows pulled together. “You…”

I raised an innocent brow. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“You look familiar.”

“I have one of those faces.”

He didn’t buy it. I could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes.

But I didn’t flinch.

If he wanted answers, he’d have to work for them.