Owned by the Cold CEO: His Fragile Acquisition

WARNING: Enter at your own risk. This is a Dark Romance featuring a merciless, morally gray hero and a high-stakes obsession. It contains themes of manipulation, dub-con (dubious consent) elements, and emotional intensity. If you are looking for a sweet, conventional hero at the beginning of the chapters, Dominic Ashcroft is not for you. You have been warned.

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Owned by the Cold CEO: His Fragile Acquisition

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Dominic settles into his leather chair, framing himself between her open thighs. He doesn't touch her with his hands first. Instead, he picks up his heavy, silver fountain pen.

He presses the nib against her inner thigh. The cold metal makes her flinch, but he doesn't stop. He begins to write. He traces black, permanent ink across her skin, the tip scratching slightly as he signs his name onto her flesh.

“I was being nice,” he says, his voice terrifyingly calm as he circles her thigh with the pen, the ink staining her like a brand. “That’s why you thought you could leave. That’s why you thought there was a door left unlocked.”

Rhea closes her eyes, her body betraying her. Despite the shame, a traitorous heat blooms where the pen travels.

“I’m going to restrain you so tight you won’t have the will to breathe without my permission,” he adds. He moves the pen higher, tracing the sensitive folds of her center.

Rhea falls back onto the desk, her head hitting the glass. “Sir!”

“You think I’m an object? Something you use for money and then dump when you’re bored?” Dominic’s voice remains steady, even as he uses the cold, hard barrel of the pen to slide inside her.

—-----> How it started

(The Interview)

Rhea Voss sits on the edge of the chair in the waiting room, her knees pressed so tightly together they ache.

Her right heel taps a frantic, silent rhythm against the tiles until she forces it to stop.

Fourteen women share the space. They are young, sleek, and draped in perfumes that cost more than Rhea’s rent.

They laugh in low, musical tones, their ambition radiating off them like heat. Rhea adjusts her glasses, the plastic frames slipping on her damp skin.

Thirty-four.

The number is a weight in her chest. She isn't old, but in this industry, she’s ancient.

Her hair is pinned into a sensible, severe knot. Her dress is oversized and charcoal gray - a shield designed to hide the curves she no longer knows how to flaunt.

Practical. Safe. Invisible.

"Applicant number twenty-one."

The voice is crisp, belonging to a receptionist who looks at Rhea with a flash of pity that hurts worse than a slap. Rhea stands, clutching her folder like a life preserver.

The door to the inner sanctum is massive: dark, heavy wood that exists solely to remind you of your smallness. She knocks once and enters.

The office is an ocean of obsidian and glass.

Three people sit behind a desk that looks like a judge’s bench. Rhea walks forward, her pulse thundering in her ears. Each step across the polished floor feels like a walk to the gallows.

On the left, an older man with a practiced, bored expression. In the middle, a woman whose gaze is a scalpel.

And then, there is him.

He is younger than the others - late twenties, perhaps - but he commands the room without saying a word.

He is leaning back, his suit jacket open, his dark eyes locked on Rhea with a clinical, predatory intensity. He doesn't smile. He doesn't blink. He just watches her as if she’s a puzzle he’s already solved.

"Good afternoon," Rhea says. Her voice trembles, just a fraction as she adjusts her glasses.

“Let’s begin,” the older man says.

“My name is Rhea Voss…”

“You can sit,” the woman interrupts

Rhea obeys, the leather chair cool against her legs. She can feel the younger man’s gaze crawling over her, cataloging her cheap shoes, her nervous hands, her glasses.

"I'm here for the executive assistant position..."

"Is that meant to be impressive?" The younger man’s voice cuts through her words. It’s calm, flat, and terrifyingly cold. "We know why you're here, Ms. Voss."

He leans forward, and the air in the room seems to vanish. Authority clings to him like a second skin.

"I have two years of experience—"

"You have a seven-year gap of doing nothing," he interrupts again, his eyes narrowing. "And you’re thirty-four. Unemployed."

"My father got ill," Rhea says, pushing up her glasses, her voice dropping. "I cared for him. I am a hard worker, sir. I promise—"

"I don't care about promises," he says smoothly. His gaze drops to her hands, which are twisting together in her lap. "I care about results."

He says the word with a strange, dark relish.

"Tell me, Fragile... why should I hire a woman who looks like she’s one bad day away from an ending?" he continues, his voice a low, dangerous tone.

The nickname - Fragile - hits her like a physical blow. Rhea’s breath stutters. She looks at him, really looks at him, and sees a monster behind the bespoke suit.

"I'm...I'm not breakable, sir," she whispers, though her heart is screaming.

"We're finished here," the woman says, checking her watch. "You don't have the presence we require. We need someone... younger and bold. Someone who fits the brand."

Rhea nods, the rejection a familiar, dull ache in her soul. She stands, smoothing her oversized dress, her hands shaking as she gathers her folder.

"Thank you for your time."

She turns to leave, the silence of the office pressing against her back.

She can feel his eyes on her. She can feel the weight of his stare tracking the curve of her hips, the line of her shoulders, the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide.

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Rhea enters the apartment, and the silence is the first thing that hits her: a heavy, hollow quiet that has lived here since her mother died four years ago.

She finds her father in the recliner. The television is on, but he isn't watching it. His chest moves in shallow, wet rattles; the sound of fluid building up in his lungs, and one that reminds her of every cent they don't have. His skin is the color of old parchment.

She slips off her shoes and moves quietly. Only when she is in the kitchen does she allow herself to breathe.

Six years of hospital corridors. Medications. Waiting rooms that smell like antiseptic and fear.

She adjusts her glasses.

Fragile. His voice slips back into her thoughts. Controlled. Precise. Heavy.

He wasn't just a man; he was an apex predator who had found the weakest link in her armor within seconds.

And the way he looked at her. The way he stripped her bare with a single word makes her shiver.

But what unsettles her most isn’t that he said it. It’s that as she stares at her reflection in the darkened kitchen window, she realizes she finally believes him.

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© 2026 Zora Grey. All rights reserved.

This story is an original work. Unauthorized reproduction or reposting is prohibited.