My Ruthless Ceo

The rain in the private villa didn't wash away sins it just turned the blood into a dull, rusted smear on the pavement. Devi stood in the shadows of an alleyway, a silhouette carved from obsidian, watching the warm glow of a third-story apartment window. Inside, Cali was laughing. She was pouring a glass of cheap wine, oblivious to the fact that the man she was with a boy with a soft smile and no future was already a dead man. Devi's grip tightened on the digital camera in his gloved hand. He had thousands of these photos. Cali sleeping. Cali crying at her grandmother's funeral. Cali at five years old, skinning her knee while he watched from behind a rosebush, already knowing she was his. "Mine," he whispered, the word a prayer and a curse. He didn't care about the billions in his bank account or the trail of bodies he'd left to become the CEO of the city's underworld. He only cared about the girl who didn't remember his name, but whose soul was stitched to his by a tether of obse

The morning sun was an intruder. It poked through the gaps in Cali’s blinds, mocking the three deadbolts she’d slammed home the night before. Cali sat at her vanity, staring at the dark circles under her eyes. She looked like hell, which was a professional disaster for a woman whose face was her only currency. She grabbed a concealer palette and began aggressively masking the fatigue. "Cali! Open this door right now!" Her mother’s voice shrilled through the wood, followed by a frantic pounding. Cali didn't move. She finished her eyeliner with a steady, lethal precision before standing up. She swung the door open, her expression flat and unimpressed. "The sun is barely up, Elena. Unless the house is literally on fire, get out." Elena pushed past her, waving a glossy invitation like a weapon. "You didn't tell me! Why didn't you tell me you were invited to the Santoro Gala? The guest list is exclusive to the top 1% of the underworld and the elite. If you go, our debts—" "I’m not

The sun didn't just rise in the loft, it assaulted it. The floor-to-ceiling glass turned the shrine of her life into a blinding gallery of her own face. Cali woke up on the velvet sofa, her neck stiff and her temper shorter than the hem of her sheer gown. She stood up, her bare feet hitting the cold polished concrete, and looked at the walls. Thousands of Calis stared back. Happy Cali, sad Cali, and most of all, grumpy Cali. "Morning, narcissist," she snapped at the empty air, assuming Devi was watching his monitors. She marched over to the nearest photo, a candid of her at eighteen, laughing at a street performer. She grabbed the edge of the frame and yanked. It didn't budge. It was bolted to the masonry. "Oh, you think you’re smart?" she muttered. She looked around for something heavy. Her eyes landed on a sleek, black kitchen island. On top of it sat a single, white porcelain bowl filled with fresh blackberries and a small, silver paring knife. Next to it was a glass of

The sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows over the city shadows that felt like Devi’s fingers trailing over the skyline.Cali didn’t go to the agency. She didn't go back to the loft. She walked until her feet ached, her oversized hoodie pulled up like a shield against a world that was rapidly becoming a gilded cage.She ended up at The Rusty Anchor, a dive bar so grimy and forgotten that even the city's rats seemed to have moved on. It was the kind of place where the lighting was dim enough to hide her face and the smell of stale beer was strong enough to drown out the scent of sandalwood that seemed to haunt her skin."Whiskey. Neat. The cheap stuff," Cali snapped, sliding onto a cracked leather stool.The bartender, a man whose face looked like a crumpled paper bag, didn't even look up. "Rough day, Princess?""Don't call me that," she growled, her grumpy mask settling into a permanent scowl.She stared at the amber liquid in her glass. She felt the weight of the mother-of-