The Billionaire's Obsession (His Addiction)

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The Billionaire's Obsession

Ciara Mendes

                  As I glanced at the mountain of pending work, I found it impossible to focus on the article I had begun two days prior. With the deadline looming at the end of the week, the pressure was palpable—I knew my boss wouldn't hesitate to hold me accountable if I failed. Beverly Florence, the striking founder of Flare Magazine, was a familiar name in L.A.'s business circles, known not only for her beauty but also for her disingenuous smiles and high-pitched voice that masked the ambitious entrepreneur beneath.

The only reason I had secured this job was my ex, Fisher Roberts—the very same Fisher who had recently sown seeds of self-doubt within me. What he did to me made it nearly impossible to complete my article on Tanaya Henry and her much-discussed new jewelry line making waves in L.A.

Sixteen hours ago, I discovered that the man I was set to marry in three months was, without a doubt, in love with my sister, Bridget Bicondova. It turns out that during her rebellious year away from high school, she became Fisher's love interest—a fact I remained unaware of even though I have known him for two years ago when he moved to L.A. They kept their secret hidden until my sister could no longer bear the thought of watching me marry the man she truly loves.

Bridget seemed to lead a perfect life. She had never worked a day, thanks to her soon-to-be ex-husband, a handsome film director and screenwriter who acted as her sugar daddy. To add to the picture, my beautiful niece, Zendra Bicondova, is only four yet already displays remarkable intelligence. As if that weren't enough, they call the luxurious Hidden Hills, California, home.

At thirty-one, Bridget was prepared to abandon it all for her high school sweetheart, likely oblivious to the potential consequences in court should Alaric seek full custody of their daughter. Given that Bridget was at fault and had relied on her husband’s wealth, Alaric stood a strong chance of gaining full custody, which could mean Bridget might never see Zendra again.

"Ciara Mendes?" Melissa Upton called out, standing at the door of my cramped office, hands at her sides. Though she aimed to convey the same intimidating presence as our manager, she fell short, as Melissa simply didn't possess a mean streak in her demeanor.

I ran my fingers through my raven hair and let out a small groan, immediately understanding the reason for her visit.

"I hope the article on Miss Henry is almost finished; you have until tomorrow to get it on my desk," she said, approaching me with purpose.

I gasped at her, "What do you mean, until tomorrow? I was supposed to have three days for—"

"You're flying out to New York on Friday," she cut me off. "Our boss wants you to cover the story of Richard Haynes."

"You mean that snobbish teenage kid who's replacing Jackson in that movie series?"

"Tactics?" She nods.

"But why me?"

She sighs, taking a seat at my desk opposite me, crossing one leg over the other before saying, "No one wants to interview a thirteen-year-old brat, and everyone figures you’re the greatest at dealing with children."

She points her index finger in the air as if recalling another detail. "His family will also be present, so I don't think there's much for you to worry about."

Yeah, like his family had control. This kid, Richard Haynes, was a spoiled rich brat, the type who screams until he gets his way. The first time I saw him was on a reality TV show for delinquent children; I watched a few episodes, and that was enough to know I’d never want to deal with any child who would throw an electric kettle at his own mother just because she refused to throw him the themed party he wanted for his tenth birthday.

"I would suggest you start typing, Ciara. You'll need a lot of rest to deal with Richard." She gives my shoulder a reassuring pat before walking away.

Great, not only do I have to stress about canceling the wedding preparations and mending my broken heart, but now I also have to worry about some bratty kid potentially tearing me apart if I ask the wrong question.

Giovanni Haynes

               It was going perfectly, as always; I never doubted it for a second. My charm and wealth effortlessly captivated these women—perhaps they were simply too naive or indifferent to realize it was just a fleeting encounter. Of course, they didn’t mind! Every woman I encountered seemed content with even the briefest of my attentions, reveling in the allure of my presence.

Brunettes have typically been my preference, but lately, I've been venturing into the world of blondes. The girl sitting across from me was the third blonde I’d entertained this week. She struck me as a cute, fresh-out-of-college type; I never found it necessary to ask her age—after all, as long as she wasn’t underage, that was all that mattered. Her ample curves peeking from her short red dress and her hourglass figure suggested she was at least twenty-four, leaving little doubt in my mind that she fit the bill.

As she giggled at her own joke about clowns and gowns, I found myself lost in thoughts of all the positions where she would look magnificent, completely detached from her words. The conversation held little importance to me; in my mind, the only time I truly wanted to hear a woman was when she was moaning in pleasure.

"Should we go to my hotel room?" I asked, tired of her chatter and eager to shift the focus to something that truly excited me.

Her red lips parted in a smile as she brushed her curly blonde hair aside, and with a playful glint in her eye, she replied, "I thought you would never ask."

She stood up, and as I moved to place my hand on her lower back, my phone buzzed, flashing "Mother" across the screen. I quickly pocketed the device, opting to ignore the familiar summons that often came with nagging questions about my life choices, marriage expectations, or requests for favor.

"Shall we?" Victoria inquired or I assume that's her name, her small blue eyes sparkling with curiosity as she gazed up at me, prompting a mix of excitement and uncertainty about where the evening would lead us.

"We shall."

          I guided her to my hotel suite, mindful of my rule to never invite women to my home again after the unforgettable mistake with Mitchell Garcia. Just as we approached the door, my phone buzzed insistently in my pocket for the third time, its persistent ringing grating on my nerves and threatening to disrupt the moment.

As I swiped the key card and pushed the door open to room 306, I turned to her with a playful smile. "Why don't you wait inside for me, sweetheart? I have to take this," I said, planting a light kiss on her neck before leaning in closer to whisper, "Make yourself very comfortable for me." The warmth of her skin lingered as I stepped back, the anticipation thick in the air.

As the door clicked shut behind her, I took a moment to steady myself before answering the phone.

"Mother?" I said, stepping a few paces away from my room to escape the enticing ambiance inside, my heartbeat quickening as I braced for the conversation ahead.

""Giovanni, I have been trying to reach you for so long," her voice echoed through the phone, laced with concern.

"Why would that be, mother?" I replied, wondering what could possibly be so urgent.

"Your brother has an interview with Flare Magazine in a few days," she continued.

I could sense where this was heading, but I couldn’t help myself—“And what exactly does that have to do with me?” I inquired with feigned nonchalance.

“I need you to fly to New York to be there with him,” she replied, her voice firm yet tinged with an urgency that made it clear this wasn’t just a casual request.

“Mother, you know I’m a busy man,” I said, casually slipping my free hand into my pocket as I awaited her response. Of course, I had a capable team handling my affairs while I was out of L.A.; this was just my reluctant excuse to avoid the trip.

“Don’t lie to me, Giovanni; you have people who cater to your every need. If you wanted to leave L.A. for a year, you could do so without a hitch. Besides, we all need to be there.”

I knew Martha Haynes all too well; if I didn’t concede now, she wouldn’t relent until she got her way—something all Haynes had in common. We had a relentless determination to go the extra mile for what we desired, just like the pretty blonde waiting for me inside. “Fine,” I finally relented, suspecting it was the only way to get her off my back.