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20. WE DON'T TALK ABOUT ROBERT
publish date:
2026-03-20 17:37:23
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THE JANITOR'S DAUGHTER: Mistress for the CEO 24. FRACTURES AND FAULT LINES
"Is she okay?” Elena asked, her voice laced with genuine concern as she took in the sight of Chelsea trembling at Robert’s side.Robert frowned, his brows knitting together as he glanced down at her. “I’m pretty sure it’s that rascal she’s been seeing,” he muttered, a hint of irritation in his tone. Then, when Chelsea didn’t react—didn’t defend, didn’t deny—his voice softened. “Or… maybe just a bad day.”“Oh, dear.” Elena moved gracefully across the room, settling into the empty chair beside them.Chelsea didn't offer the specifics. She couldn't bring herself to voice the tangled web of the Dylans, the threats, or the crushing weight of her father’s disappointment. “My life is just… it’s a mess,” she whispered, her voice cracking.“Chelsea, look at me,” Elena said, reaching out to take her hand. “The day you walked into this clinic, you brought a ray of hope for everyone here. Do you have any idea how much light you carry?”Robert nodded firmly. “She’s right. You’ve been a rock, takin
THE JANITOR'S DAUGHTER: Mistress for the CEO 23. SHATTERED IN HIS EYES
“Fuck!” Davis cursed under his breath.Everything happened at once.He pulled back sharply, grabbing for his shirt while Chelsea scrambled in panic, her fingers shaking so badly she could barely gather her clothes. She curled into herself on the desk, trying to shield her body, her heart slamming violently against her ribs.“Dad!” she cried, her voice breaking.He stood amidst the spilled cleaning fluid and the hollow clatter of plastic, his face a mask of gray, transfixed horror. His eyes—wide, horrified, disbelieving—moved from Davis to Chelsea and back again. "Chelsea..." his voice was a ghost of itself, hollow and thin. "I can't believe this.""No, Dad... please..." Tears tracked hot paths through the flush on her cheeks. "Dad, wait!"But he didn't wait. He turned numbly on his heels, his movements robotic, and walked away from the open door, leaving his tools abandoned on the floor like a casualty of war.“Dad!” she cried again, louder this time, scrambling off the desk.She fu
THE JANITOR'S DAUGHTER: Mistress for the CEO 22. COLLISIONS
“Please… just hear me out before you say anything.” Chelsea’s voice was soft, but there was urgency beneath it. Davis looked at her, his expression a fortress of cold professionalism, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of the hunger he’d been trying to starve for a month. He didn't stand. He simply gestured to the leather chair across from him. "Sit," “…Sit,” he said finally. She obeyed. The silence that followed was suffocating. Chelsea watched him, seeing the iron set of his jaw, the way he refused to soften. She took a breath, letting the weight of the last few weeks guide her voice.. “ I know that whatever we have isn't 'real' in the traditional sense," she began, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. "It was a deal. I have to keep my part, just like you’ve kept yours. But... I sometimes forget that’s all it is. The truth is, I like being with you." A pause. Davis let out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders dropping an inch. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice rough.
THE JANITOR'S DAUGHTER: Mistress for the CEO 21. DISTANCE AND DISTRACTION
Sleep had become a stranger.Chelsea lay awake most nights, staring at the ceiling, replaying that moment in the car over and over again—wincing at her own impulsiveness. Perhaps in any other case, she would have minded her own business, but this was Robert—the man she had cradled back from the ledge of despair for months.She turned on her side, pulling the blanket closer around herself. Kimberly had once whispered the darker truths of Robert’s file. According to her, Robert had once tried to end his life—twice.Chelsea squeezed her eyes shut.Whatever that man had done… he was paying for it. But for how long?Maybe… if she found a better way to approach it next time— Chelsea hoped for a chance to explain that to Davis, to soften the blow, but the chance never came.Days bled into weeks. There were no cryptic texts from Amber, no sleek black cars waiting at the curb, and no Davis. By the fourth week, a cold knot of dread settled in her stomach. She feared she had sabotaged everything
THE JANITOR'S DAUGHTER: Mistress for the CEO 20. WE DON'T TALK ABOUT ROBERT
Her eyes were khaki brown in the morning light, but they deepened to a coffee dark when they were darkened by desire- with lust. Davis didn’t know when it started happening.When her laughter became something he waited for. It was his favorite soundtrack; like tiny Christmas bells. It didn't matter if a joke was dry or the punchline fell flat; he just loved the way the sound vibrated in the air between them. Davis would have given anything in the world to hear her whisper his name in that breathless, broken way while he rode her to the heavens. It was all becoming something dangerously close to an addiction.Chelsea.Even thinking it made something tighten in his chest.They had fallen into a rhythm—reckless, secret, and far too easy. They had become masters of the "sneaky link," growing more creative with every passing week. They found new ways to meet, new corners of the city to hide in, and new ways to satisfy the hunger that seemed to grow rather than fade.Davis told himself it
THE JANITOR'S DAUGHTER: Mistress for the CEO 19. MAN IN THE PICTURE FRAME
"Chelsea!"The sound of his voice cut through the suffocating darkness like a blade.Relief didn’t come gently—it crashed into her.Her knees nearly gave out. Chelsea, pinned against the cold metal of the SUV, felt the oppressive weight of her attackers shift.Before she could even open her eyes, chaos erupted.A sharp thud.A grunt.A cry of pain.Chelsea blinked rapidly, vision clearing just in time to see Davis. João was a half-step behind him, moving with the clinical precision of a man who had done this a thousand times. The first bouncer barely had time to turn before João’s fist connected with his jaw—a sharp, sickening crack that echoed off the concrete walls. The man crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.But Davis was a different kind of storm. He didn't use finesse; he used pure, unadulterated rage. He caught the second man by the throat, swinging him bodily away from Chelsea and slamming him into the side of a parked sedan.One second, Paddy Nelson was pale-faced —his fl
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