All Chapters of MY CEO, MY OBSESSION : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The notice came written in white, cruel, clean, and final.“Eviction Notice.”The words screamed louder than any slap could. My rent was two months late, and Mrs. Jenkins, my landlady, had finally run out of sympathy. The paper trembled in my hand as if mocking my last thread of stability.I sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the cracked wall. I’d already sold jewelry, skipped meals, and begged every contact I had for a job. Nothing.Now, I couldn’t even afford a roof.Clara’s laughter echoed faintly from the other room, soft and innocent. She was on a call with her friend, probably talking about school. She didn’t know that the power bill on the table would cut our lights tomorrow. I’d hidden it under a magazine like guilt.I pressed the eviction notice to my chest, trying to breathe. My reflection in the mirror caught my—again, the same tired face, the same hollow eyes.How much longer could I pretend?My phone buzzed, snapping me back. A message from an unknown number flashe

The alarm buzzed at exactly 6:00 a.m., slicing through the silence of my new apartment. I’d barely slept. My body was in bed, but my mind had been pacing all night, haunted by the memory of Damien Voss’s eyes and the sharp command in his last message.> “Be ready by 7 AM. Wear black. And Elena… Don’t be late.”His words replayed in my head over and over like an unbreakable loop.I dressed in the black dress. So—sleek, delivered earlier, sleek, fitted, with a modest neckline but an aura of quiet power. It wasn’t me. It felt like I was wearing someone else’s skin. But maybe that was the point, and she needed to become someone else to survive this world.By 6:45, I was already downstairs, waiting. The driver, dressed in black like the rest of Damien’s world, opened the car door without a word.The city was still waking up, sunlight crawling between skyscrapers, soft horns echoing in the distance. But inside that tinted car, it was nothing but silence and tension.When we reached Voss Tow

The email stared back at me, each word burning into my retinas until I could see them even when I blinked.Meet me in the private suite tonight. 10 p.m. sharp. My finger hovered over the touchpad. The cursor blinked—once, twice—like a heartbeat counting down the seconds until I had to make a choice I wasn't ready to make.I could delete it. Pretend my internet had glitched. Walk out of this office and spend the evening in my sterile apartment, microwaving something that barely counted as dinner and lying to Clara about how fine everything was.But my hand wouldn't move toward the delete key.The office had emptied an hour ago. I'd heard the gradual exodus: the shuffle of papers, the soft dings of elevators, and the murmur of "see you tomorrow" that people exchanged when they still believed in such things. Now there was only silence and the low hum of air conditioning and my own breathing, too loud in the stillness.I pressed my palms flat against the cool desk surface. Everything here

I didn't sleep.How could I, with Marcus Reed's message burning behind my eyelids every time I tried to close them? The photo of us — intimate, unguarded—felt like a violation that went deeper than privacy. It was proof that even in Damien's carefully controlled world, we were vulnerable.I'd left the suite at two in the morning, despite Damien's insistence that I stay. He'd wanted to strategise, to plan our counterattack, but I couldn't think straight with him so close. Couldn't separate the man who'd kissed me like I was oxygen from the CEO who was now dragging me into a war I didn't understand.Now, standing in front of my bathroom mirror at six-thirty, I looked like hell.Dark circles shadowed my eyes. My skin had that pale, translucent quality that came from exhaustion and fear. I'd scrubbed off last night's makeup in a daze, and now my face felt raw, exposed. Like someone had peeled back a layer I couldn't put back.I pressed my palms against the cool marble countertop, trying

I didn't tell Damien about Melissa.I should have. Should have marched straight back to his office and reported that his ex-wife had somehow gotten into the building, knew my name, and was clearly circling with intent. But something about the encounter felt too personal, too calculated to be a simple coincidence.Besides, I had bigger problems.My phone buzzed for the third time in an hour—Clara's name flashing across the screen with increasing urgency. I'd been ignoring her calls since lunch, buried in work I didn't need to do, hiding behind spreadsheets because numbers couldn't ask questions I didn't want to answer.The fourth buzz came with a text: If you don't pick up, I'm coming to your office.My stomach dropped. Clara couldn't come here. Couldn't see this world I'd been living in, couldn't meet the people who whispered about me in break rooms, couldn't accidentally run into Damien and make the connection between my boss and the man whose photo had been in the business section n