One Night With The Possessive CEO
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Bridget left the office early on her anniversary, her pocket heavy with a custom velvet ring box meant for her fiancé.
But when she pushed open the bedroom door, she found him tangled in their bed with her best friend, Chloe.
"Bridget! Wait, it's not what it looks like!" Jacob stammered, his eyes wide with panic.
"Evidence," Bridget stated coldly, snapping a photo of their naked bodies before fleeing into the freezing New York night.
Desperate to numb the betrayal, she got blackout drunk at an underground lounge and threw herself at a dark, terrifyingly handsome stranger.
She woke up in a penthouse suite alone, finding only a limitless black credit card left on the nightstand.
Humiliated and feeling like a cheap escort, she ran away, swearing to forget the nightmare.
But the nightmare had just begun. When she rushed into the office, she discovered the stranger was Jevon Rocha—the ruthless billionaire CEO of her company.
He didn't fire her. Instead, he trapped her in a twisted, obsessive power game, forcing her into his private life and demanding she report to his penthouse.
Bridget couldn't understand why a ruthless billionaire was so dangerously fixated on a low-level employee.
Until she stumbled upon his secret social media account and saw a crayon drawing of a little kid, captioned with a single word: "Finally."
A wave of absolute horror washed over her. He wasn't just playing games; he was hiding a secret child and a messy, high-stakes family drama.
She refused to be the naive collateral damage in a billionaire's twisted life.
Trembling, Bridget hit "Block" on his profile, determined to escape his dangerous web.
One Night With The Possessive CEO Chapter 1
The wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin echoed from the master bedroom.
Bridget froze in the narrow hallway of her Brooklyn apartment. The custom velvet ring box in her coat pocket suddenly felt like a block of lead against her thigh. She had left the office three hours early, her chest tight with the anticipation of surprising Jacob on their anniversary.
Now, her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.
She forced her legs to move. One step. Then another. The door was cracked open, a sliver of dim, yellow light spilling onto the hardwood floor. Her breathing turned shallow, the air burning her throat as she pushed the wooden panel.
The door swung open.
Jacob was on the bed. Their bed. His hands were gripping the waist of a woman whose face was buried in the pillows. The woman arched her back, and the silver bridesmaid bracelet on her wrist caught the light.
Chloe. Her best friend.
Bridget's vision blurred, the edges of the room turning black. A violent wave of nausea rolled through her stomach, pushing sour bile up her throat.
"Jacob," Bridget choked out.
The word tasted like ash.
Jacob's head snapped up. His eyes widened, the pupils dilating in sheer panic. He scrambled backward, his chest heaving as he frantically yanked the white duvet up to cover his naked waist.
"Bridget! Wait, it's not-" Jacob stammered, his voice cracking.
The absolute absurdity of his words snapped the paralysis holding Bridget's body. Her hand darted into her pocket. Her fingers curled around the velvet box. Without a single thought, she hurled it with every ounce of strength in her arm.
The heavy box flew across the room. The corner of the velvet box caught him squarely on the forehead, striking his skin with a dull thud.
Jacob let out a sharp cry, his hands flying up to cover the angry red welt blooming on his skin.
Chloe finally turned over. She pulled the sheet over her chest, letting out a high-pitched scream. But as her eyes met Bridget's, the corner of Chloe's mouth twitched upward. A subtle, silent taunt.
Bridget dug her nails into her palms until the skin threatened to break. She refused to let a single tear fall. Her hands shook violently as she pulled her phone from her purse. She raised it, the screen glaring in the dim room, and pressed the capture button. The flash blinded them for a split second.
"Evidence," Bridget stated, her voice devoid of any warmth.
Jacob threw the covers off, his bare feet hitting the floor.
"Bridget, please! Let me explain!" He reached out, his sweaty fingers grazing her wrist.
A full-body shudder ripped through her. She violently yanked her arm back, wiping her wrist against her coat as if he had infected her with a disease.
She turned on her heel and sprinted out of the apartment.
The brutal chill of the New York winter hit her the second she pushed through the lobby doors. The freezing wind slapped her face, and finally, the dam broke. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks, burning her freezing skin.
Her phone vibrated in her hand. The screen flashed with Gigi's name.
Bridget swiped to answer, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Gigi," she sobbed, her throat constricting.
"Hey, did you pick up the veil?" Gigi's cheerful voice came through the speaker.
"He's sleeping with Chloe," Bridget gasped out, her knees buckling slightly as she leaned against a brick wall.
A heavy silence fell over the line. Then, a string of vicious, creative curses erupted from Gigi.
" Get in a cab right now. Come to the lounge in Lower Manhattan. I'm going to get you so drunk you forget his name."
Thirty minutes later, Bridget pushed through the heavy glass doors of the exclusive underground lounge. The bass from the electronic music vibrated through the floorboards, rattling her teeth and drowning out the sound of her own ragged breathing. She kept her thin trench coat wrapped tightly around her shivering body.
Gigi grabbed her arm the moment she stepped inside, dragging her directly to the neon-lit bar. Gigi slammed a hand on the counter and ordered a full bottle of silver tequila.
Bridget didn't wait for the lime or the salt. She grabbed the first shot glass and threw it back. The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her esophagus, settling like a hot coal in her empty stomach. She poured another. And another.
By the fourth shot, the edges of her vision grew fuzzy. The crushing weight in her chest morphed into a reckless, buzzing heat. She wanted to erase the image of Jacob's hands on Chloe.
She turned her head, her hazy gaze scanning the VIP section.
Her eyes locked onto a man sitting in the shadows of a velvet booth. He was staring down at a crystal glass of whiskey. His jawline looked like it had been carved from marble, sharp and unforgiving. He radiated a dark, suffocating authority that made the air around him seem heavier.
The tequila whispered in her ear.
Bridget pushed away from the bar. Gigi grabbed her elbow.
"Bridge, where are you going?"
Bridget ignored her. She stumbled forward, her broken heels clicking unevenly against the dark floor. She walked straight toward the VIP booth.
A massive bodyguard in a black suit stepped into her path, raising a hand to stop her.
The man in the booth didn't look up, but he raised two fingers in a microscopic gesture. The bodyguard immediately stepped back, melting into the shadows.
Bridget reached the booth and let her knees give out. She collapsed right next to the man on the leather sofa. She leaned in, her alcohol-laced breath brushing against the shell of his ear.
The man slowly turned his head. His eyes were pitch black, bottomless and terrifying. As his gaze locked onto her face, his pupils dilated rapidly. The knuckles of the hand holding his glass turned completely white.
Bridget was too drunk to notice the storm raging in his eyes. She reached out, her trembling fingers grabbing the knot of his silk tie. She pulled him closer, the fabric sliding against his crisp collar.
His breathing hitched. His chest expanded, but he didn't pull away. He let her drag him across the invisible boundary.
"Take me out of here," Bridget whispered, her voice cracking with a mixture of tears and intoxication.
The man stared at her lips for a long, agonizing second. Then, his large hand clamped around her waist. In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood up, hauling her off the sofa and into his arms.
Bridget gasped, her hands instinctively flying up to grip his broad shoulders. Her face pressed into his neck, and her lungs filled with the crisp, clean scent of cedarwood and expensive soap.
He carried her through the crowded lounge. People stared, but he didn't spare them a single glance. His jaw was set, his strides long and purposeful.
A sleek black Maybach was idling at the curb. A driver scrambled to pull the rear door open. The man shielded her head with his hand and practically shoved her into the spacious backseat, climbing in right after her.
The door slammed shut, sealing them in a dark, quiet bubble.
Bridget's blood was boiling. She operated purely on instinct. She reached out in the dark, her hands finding his face, and smashed her lips against his.
The man's Adam's apple bobbed violently against her palm. He let out a low, rough groan that vibrated against her mouth. His hands tangled in her hair, and he took complete control, kissing her back with a devastating, consuming hunger.
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One Night With The Possessive CEO of Contents
New Release Novels
7.3
I found out my husband of three years had cheated on me and his mistress is the one who told me-because he didn't have the balls to do it himself.
I move out and get a new apartment, a job as a bartender, and try to move on with a broken heart. I wonder where it all went wrong, if I hadn't been enough for him, if I'd been stupid for marrying him in the first place.
I'm at work one night when he walks inside-the most beautiful man I've ever seen. He sits at the bar and a forest fire burns between us. I was depressed the moment before he entered, but the second I look at his blue eyes, I forget the dumpster fire that my life has become. I invite him back to my place and it's the most passionate night of my life. I expect to never see him again.
I just want him as an anti-depressant-but he wants me all to himself. I just got my heart ripped out of my chest so I want something easy and no-strings-attached, but he wants all the strings because he's hooked.
I don't get much of a say in the matter, and that's not surprising when I learn why-because he's the Butcher. The crime lord of all crime lords, the boss that overshadows all of Paris, that makes everyone abide by his rules-or pay.
And now I'm his.
9.4
I thought the Burch family gave me a loving home when they took me out of the orphanage.
But when the global deep freeze apocalypse hit, my adoptive parents mercilessly kicked me out of the bunker to freeze to death.
As I lay dying in the snow, covered in horrific purple frostbite, my adoptive sister Kendal walked past me in a pristine designer jacket.
Around her neck was my only childhood possession—an antique gold necklace my adoptive mother had ripped off my neck to give to her.
Kendal gloated, bragging that my pendant held a magical space with infinite supplies and fresh food while the rest of the world starved.
I realized I had spent years emptying my life savings to fund their luxury cars and fake medical emergencies.
They had drained my bank accounts, stolen my bloodline's heirloom, and used my magical lifeline to live like royalty while leaving me to die.
I took my last ragged breath in that blinding blizzard, consumed by a toxic hatred.
Why was I so hopelessly weak? Why did I let them take everything from me?
Opening my eyes again, the painful frostbite scars were gone. My skin was warm.
I grabbed my phone. The screen lit up: November 12.
It was exactly three days before the world ended.
When my adoptive mother called, faking a tearful emergency to demand another thirty thousand dollars, I smiled coldly.
"Just tell me where to send the money, Mom."
This time, I'm taking my space back, and I'm going to drain them dry.
8.7
Ada was eight months pregnant, sitting peacefully in her husband's Manhattan estate, looking at a baby nursery catalog.
Suddenly, her husband's mistress, Jacklyn, walked in, threw an ultrasound photo on the table, and locked the door.
Before Ada could process the betrayal, Jacklyn dragged her to the top of the marble staircase and threw herself backward just as Desmond walked through the front doors.
"She pushed me, Desmond! She tried to kill our baby!"
Desmond looked at Ada with absolute hatred.
He ignored Ada's breaking water and her agonizing screams for help, leaving her to miscarry on the freezing floor while he rushed Jacklyn to the hospital.
He sent Ada to a brutal federal prison for three years, where she was tortured and left with a body covered in horrific scars, mourning the baby she was told died at birth.
When Ada was finally released, Desmond destroyed her cousin's company to force her back to his estate as a lowly maid.
But when Ada saw Jacklyn's three-year-old son, her world stopped.
Right in the center of the little boy's palm was a faint crescent moon birthmark.
It was the exact same mark Ada had kissed on her own lifeless baby's tiny hand before the doctors took his body away.
How did her dead child become Jacklyn's little prince?
Looking at the woman who stole her life and the husband who threw her in hell, Ada clenched her scarred hands and swore she would tear their world apart to get her son back.
7.4
I was only fifteen when my venomous family orchestrated my doom by forcing me into an arranged marriage with mafia heir Javier Velasquez.
On our wedding night, Javier paraded strippers into our suite to show his absolute contempt, turning me into the ultimate joke of the underworld overnight.
But being a joke was a luxury compared to what came next.
Three years later, Javier needed to be a widower to marry into a heavily armed family and secure their backing for a coup.
He didn't grant me the mercy of a bullet.
Instead, he dragged me to an abandoned underground safehouse, locked me in the damp, rotting dark, and told the world I had been assassinated.
For six months, I starved in that dungeon, surviving only on the desperate hope that my family was safe.
Then, on the day of his lavish new wedding, a cruel maid kicked a plate of spoiled food onto my floor and delivered the final, fatal blow.
"Annabel is dead. Pined away and died of a broken heart two weeks ago."
My gentle mother was dead, all because she actually believed his lie about my tragic murder.
Driven by pure agony and an all-consuming hatred, I shattered crates of smuggled chemical solvents and struck a match, letting the roaring inferno turn their bloody wedding into my funeral pyre.
I thought the fire was the end.
But when I opened my eyes, the suffocating smoke vanished, replaced by the biting chill of a Long Island winter.
I was standing in the snow, back on the exact day my descent into hell began.
This time, the terrified girl was dead, and I would use their own ruthless rules to tear their empire apart.
7.9
Cora Foster was a brilliant archaeologist, but a jagged burn scar across her face made the world treat her like a contagious monster.
During an elite excavation of a Gilded Age crypt, touching an ancient artifact triggered a terrifying memory. She remembered being Seraphina Beaumont, a socialite brutally buried alive by her vain, cruel sister, Isolde.
When the team pried open the crypt's pristine mahogany casket, they cheered, believing the mummified corpse inside was Seraphina. But Cora recognized the onyx hairpin and the angular jawline. It was Isolde. The sister who had stolen her life, mocked her agony, and left her to suffocate in the dark. Her colleagues scoffed at her forensic proof, dismissing her as a scarred, delusional liability.
Worse, the ruthless billionaire funding the expedition, Julian Montgomery, was the spitting image of Alistair—the man Seraphina had deeply loved. Why was Julian staring at her ruined face with such intense, inexplicable recognition? And why did Isolde take Seraphina's most precious silver ring to the grave?
Driven by a century of agonizing grief, Cora secretly pried the tarnished ring from the mummy's stiff, dead fingers and dropped it into her pocket.
"What are you looking at, Foster?"
Julian's deep voice vibrated inches from her ear, his cold, predatory eyes locked directly onto her half-open pocket.
9.4
Dorene survived a terrifying night with a bleeding, dangerous intruder in her hotel penthouse, only to receive a far more devastating blow the next morning.
A black and gold envelope arrived. It was an engagement invitation. Her boyfriend of seven years, Kadyn, was marrying her sweet, innocent best friend, Dolly.
Refusing to hide, Dorene crashed the gala in a blood-red gown. But Dolly was ready. Grabbing Dorene's wrists, Dolly purposely threw herself backward into a tower of champagne glasses, shrieking about her stomach and her unborn baby.
"If anything happens to Dolly or my child, I swear to God, I will destroy you!"
Kadyn roared, holding the weeping Dolly in the broken glass. He didn't ask a single question. He branded Dorene a jealous monster. To completely break her dignity, he publicly handed her over to the city's most notorious, sleazy playboy just to appease Dolly's fake tears.
"Give him a shot," Kadyn told her coldly.
Seven years of love were ground into the marble floor. She was framed, publicly humiliated, and discarded like trash by the two people she trusted most.
Dorene didn't shed a single tear. She gave them a smile of pure, freezing mockery and walked out of the gilded cage into the freezing Manhattan night. She didn't know that as she left, the lethal, blood-stained man from her penthouse was watching from the shadows, ready to help her burn their world to the ground.
