The CEO's Obsession

Nicole Avery sucked in a bigger breath as she pulled the strings of the shapewear corset tighter. It didn’t seem to have made much of a difference. She didn’t see the hourglass figure that the advert had promised; she still looked a little too curvy.  

No matter. She was doing this. 

She turned away from the mirror and reached for her outfit. It was a fitted business suit for a change, so she knew she wouldn’t be comfortable in it all day. It was a black pinstripe business suit with a calf-length pencil skirt. She had been unsure about the stripes because she’d always read that they were a no-no if you were overweight, but the sales lady had assured her that was only a myth. Since she had spent more on that outfit than she had ever done on any piece of clothing, she had taken the woman’s word for it.  

She was making a stand today, and the new outfit was necessary—if she could breathe in it. As she tucked in her pristine, light blue silk blouse, she realised she couldn’t take full breaths. Was this how it was supposed to be? Surely this corset would be against all medical advice? 

Maybe she was better off sticking to her usual office wear. Why had she listened to Casey again? Her friend had a way of making her fall into her plans, and they always seemed like the best plans to start with. Why did she have to do this just to prove to everyone that she was not the least bit affected by recent events? She had never cared what people thought about her before.

Her alarm went off, startling her into action when she realised she had only ten minutes to leave the flat. She hadn’t even had her breakfast yet. Maybe, with this deathtrap on, it was best to skip that meal. She would have to remove it after the meeting to breathe properly again. 

She picked up her phone and unlocked it to look again at the picture that spurred all of this stupidness. 

Her ex-husband. 

Sitting in the backyard of the house her parents had left to her while she had used her savings and inheritance to put him through school, like an idiot. Her blood boiled as she thought of how hard it had been to let go of that house when they had to sell it because of the divorce. That bastard had refused to let her buy him out, even though he had put nothing towards it. She had cried more for that house than for him. 

Maybe that was why he had swooped in to buy it back the moment he had made enough money to buy it outright. Her half of the money was still sitting in her bank account. The couple that had purchased the house had refused to sell it back, even with her inflated offer. Andrew must have offered them way over the value so that they would accept him instead.

She merely glanced at the woman beside him, his latest stick-thin plaything. And she completely ignored the article under that picture that still had so many comments coming in. If she were to read that again, she would likely punch someone, preferably Andrew himself. All that would be achieved would be confirmation of his lies.

She threw the phone back onto her bed with muttered swear words. 

With some difficulty, she bent down and pulled her shoes from under the bed. Another useless waste of money. She preferred lower heels or flats for work, but today she was going to look glamorous, even if she broke her damn neck trying. They could talk or write any shit they wanted about her, but she was going to hold her head high like she didn’t give a shit.

With one last look in the mirror at her light makeup and long red curls brutally tamed into her usual sleek bun, she squeezed past her bed in the tight space to find her bag and laptop. Her paperwork was scattered all over the only sofa in the studio apartment, so she gathered it up and looked for her keys. 

Not that there were many places to look. This studio apartment was smaller than the bathrooms at work. She just barely fit her double bed and the small sofa. Her small TV was mounted on the wall to save space, and the few clothes she had here were in the small wardrobe beside the bed. And she had to squeeze her way into the tiny bathroom adjoined to the bedroom. Her ‘kitchen’ was just a counter to the side, where she had mini appliances to get by.

She found the keys on the counter and then headed out. She had to yank her door open because, like many things here, that didn’t work properly. She wasn’t even sure how the whole place had passed as fit for human occupancy. And the building had no elevators, so accessibility was an issue. Groaning, she started down the six flights of stairs in the ridiculous heels, and by the time she had reached the bottom, she was regretting her choice of footwear as well as the tight corset. But there was no way she was going back up those stairs to change.

And there was no way she would cower in front of anyone.

“Taxi for Miss Avery?”

She looked at the Black Cab waiting outside her building complex in surprise. 

“I didn’t call a taxi.”

“Ordered by a Miss... Casey Adams,” the taxi driver said after glancing at his phone.

Nicole smiled as she got into the taxi. At least she wouldn’t have to navigate the mad pedestrian traffic in these heels. The shorter breaths she was taking made the commute seem a lot harder than usual. By the time they drove up to the tall glass building that housed Steele Enterprises, she was sure she was dying. There was no way she would last too long with this contraption on. How did other women do it?

Steele Enterprises was the umbrella company for several of Mr Steele’s businesses—construction, security, technology, and financial services. The whole building was overkill. Glass and steel, rising above all the other buildings, and one of London's finest pieces of architecture. She hated it. It screamed ‘pretentious’, just like the man who owned it. Being his Executive Assistant required many skills, and most people hired before her had not been able to keep up. There were a lot of sacrifices involved, like being the first to arrive and the last to leave.

Just thinking about him annoyed her. Damian Steele and Andrew were cut from the same cloth. Both were arrogant, cheating bastards who thought the sun shone from their asses, but Mr Steele was worth billions and paid her salary, so at least he had that going for him. 

Her heels echoed as she walked into the lobby. There was no one there yet except the night security. She took small steps across the stone floors with the new shoes pinching her toes, keeping her head down so she wouldn’t have to see the looks on the security guys’ faces. She would end up on her ass before the morning was over.

“Morning,” she said, feeling her lips stretch in an awkward smile as she walked past them and swiped her security card.

She walked up to the elevators and chose the closest one. When the elevators opened on the executive floor, she looked at the floor again and back at her high heels. She cursed herself again for listening to Casey. Who was she kidding? This was a bad idea. She couldn’t change her outfit now, but at least she had the flat shoes in her office. Those would have to do for the day. She wasn’t even going to pretend she could walk in high heels any longer than this.

She gingerly walked through the lobby past the empty receptionist desk. There was no one in the waiting area yet, and the glass walls of the conference room showed it was still thankfully empty. The meeting wasn’t for another couple of hours. 

She finally made it to the end of the hallway and wobbled into her office. Mr Steele was probably already in because, besides being a cheating man-whore, he was also a workaholic. She would just change her shoes before she went in to tell him she was there. That would be one problem solved. All she would have to do after that would be to learn how to breathe in the corset. Piece of cake.

At least no one had seen her. 

But that thought crossed her mind too soon because the devil himself chose that moment to walk in through their connecting doors.

He came to an abrupt stop when he saw her.

Perfectly groomed, as always. Perfect brunette hair in a trendy hairstyle. A perfect designer beard that highlighted those perfect lips. A perfect sculptured face without a single blemish in sight. He stood over six feet three or four—she had to crane her neck to look up at him because she was only five-two while he was built like a truck.

Women threw themselves at him wherever he went, but she couldn't see the appeal. Sure, he was drop-dead gorgeous, and his voice... There was some sort of voodoo in it, she was sure. It was deep and so commanding that he probably just had to whisper, "Drop your panties," and they'd come right off even if she didn't want them to. But those women could keep him. His hazel eyes were soulless, and he never smiled. Only demons were like that.

Once again, he had dressed like a model for the expensive brand of suits he wore—a dark blue suit today, with a crisp white shirt, and his dark patterned tie was not even a few millimetres crooked. 

God, she hated him! So perfect all the time.

“Good morning, Mr Steele,” she said, straightening as she stood beside her desk and the open drawer where her flat shoes were. 

There was no way she could attempt to sit down now; the corset seemed to have got impossibly tighter.

Mr Steele walked further into the room and placed the folder he held onto her desk.

“Morning, Miss Avery.”

And then he turned and walked back into his office. She would have let out a breath of relief if she could have managed it.