All Chapters of MY CEO, MY OBSESSION : Chapter 81 - Chapter 89

I don't sleep that night.Instead, I pack methodically, folding clothes with military precision, organizing toiletries, erasing any evidence that I was ever here. By three AM, my suitcase is packed, my hotel room is spotless, and I'm sitting by the window watching the city that was supposed to be my future.Seattle without Damien feels different now. Not magical or melancholy or full of possibility—just a city. Rain and coffee shops and strangers living their lives, completely unaware that mine just imploded.My flight isn't until noon, but I can't stay in this room anymore. I check out early, the night clerk giving me a sympathetic look that suggests I'm not the first heartbroken guest he's seen.The airport is nearly empty at five AM. I find a corner in a twenty-four-hour cafe, order coffee I won't drink, and finally read the messages I've been ignoring.Rachel: "Please tell me you didn't choose the job."Clara: "Whatever you decided, I support you. But call me when you can."Maggie

Three weeks after Seattle, I have a panic attack in the middle of a board presentation.It starts small—a tightness in my chest during a slide about projected growth metrics. Then my hands start shaking so badly I have to grip the podium to hide it. By the time I'm explaining third-quarter projections, I can't breathe, the room is spinning, and I hear myself say, "Excuse me, I need a moment," before walking out mid-sentence.I make it to the bathroom before collapsing against the stall door, gasping for air that won't come, vision tunneling into black spots.This is it. This is where I lose everything. The presentation, the respect, the carefully constructed image of competence I've built for years. All gone because I can't hold it together for sixty minutes.Someone knocks. "Elena? It's Catherine. Let me in."I unlock the door with trembling hands.She takes one look at me and her expression shifts from concern to recognition. "How long has this been happening?""First time.""That's

Day ten of my leave, I'm attempting to cook something more complicated than pasta when my apartment buzzer rings.I'm not expecting anyone. Rachel's at work. Clara's in New York. The delivery I ordered isn't scheduled until tomorrow."Yes?" I answer through the intercom."Elena Torres?" A woman's voice, professional and unfamiliar."Who is this?""My name is Dr. Sarah Morrison. I'm Damien Voss's therapist. I know this is highly irregular, but I'm in Boston for a conference and—well, I was hoping we could talk. If you have time."My heart stops. "How did you get my address?""Damien still has it in his contacts. He didn't give it to me, but—I may have borrowed his phone during a session. Which I will absolutely be discussing with my own therapist because this is wildly inappropriate, but here I am anyway."Despite everything, I almost laugh. "Come up."I buzz her in, then spend the ninety seconds it takes her to climb to the third floor frantically trying to make myself presentable. Ha

The investigation consumes the next week.Amanda Fischer sets up shop in a conference room at our office, surrounded by laptops, documents, and enough coffee to fuel a small army. I spend hours going through every email, every calendar entry, every interaction I've had over the past six months, looking for anything that might connect me to Reed's allegations.It's exhausting. Humiliating. Every personal moment laid bare for strangers to analyze and judge.On day three, Amanda calls me in with a grim expression."We found something. Not about you—about Reed."She pulls up bank records on her laptop. "Three weeks before you went to Seattle, Reed made a payment to a private investigation firm. Twenty thousand dollars. The same firm that took the photographs of you and Damien.""So he was planning this before I even got there.""Not just planning. Orchestrating. We pulled phone records—Reed called your board member Richard Crane six times in the two weeks leading up to your Seattle trip.

Dr. Chen looks pleased when I tell her about the four-day work week negotiation."That's significant progress," she says. "What changed?""I stopped asking what I should do and started asking what I actually want.""And what do you want?"I consider the question—really consider it instead of reaching for the answer I think sounds right."I want space to breathe. To create things that don't have ROI attached to them. To have conversations that don't advance my career. To exist without constantly auditing my own worthiness." I pause. "And I want to stay connected to Damien without the relationship consuming me.""How is that going? The friendship?""Better than expected. We talk maybe three times a week. Sometimes about serious stuff, sometimes just—life. He tells me about foundation applicants. I tell him about my pottery disasters. It feels sustainable in a way the relationship never did.""Why do you think that is?""Because there's no pressure. We're not trying to be anything to eac