One Night With The Possessive CEO

The black Maybach glided silently over the Brooklyn Bridge. The interior of the car was pitch black, save for the faint glow of the dashboard. Bridget pressed her shoulder against the passenger door, trying to put as much physical distance between herself and Jevon as possible. The air in the car was thick with a heavy, suffocating tension. Jevon's hands gripped the leather steering wheel. His knuckles were bone white. Zane's stupid question and Bridget's brutal answer were playing on a loop in his head. He hit a red light and slammed on the brakes a little too hard. He turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto her profile. "Do you really believe a ten-year secret is deception?" Jevon asked, his voice rough and tight. Bridget frowned, confused by his sudden obsession with Zane's gossip. "Yes. If someone projects their own fantasy onto you for a decade without telling you, it's not love. It's a burden." Jevon's chest seized. A sharp, physical pain radiated through his ribs. He turned back to the windshield. When the light turned green, he slammed his foot on the gas. The Maybach roared, throwing Bridget back against the leather seat. He pulled up to the curb outside her new, rundown apartment building in Brooklyn. He didn't put the car in park. He just stared straight ahead. "Get out," Jevon ordered, his voice devoid of all emotion. Bridget flinched at his coldness. She quickly unbuckled her seatbelt, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped out into the freezing night. Before she could even close the door completely, the Maybach tore away from the curb, disappearing into the dark streets. Bridget shivered, wrapping her coat tighter around herself. She hurried up the stairs to her tiny, cramped apartment. She took a hot shower, trying to wash away the exhaustion of the day. She collapsed onto her narrow bed, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin. She grabbed her phone to set her alarm for the morning. Without thinking, she opened Instagram. She typed "Jevon Rocha" into the search bar. His profile popped up. It was unverified, with only a few dozen followers-all high-profile CEOs and board members. The grid was completely empty. Just as she was about to close the app, a purple ring appeared around his profile picture. He had just posted a Story. Bridget tapped it. The screen filled with a photo of a piece of old, yellowed paper. On the paper was a crude, childish drawing done in crayons. It showed a little boy crying, and a little girl standing in front of him, holding a stick like a sword. At the bottom of the screen, written in small, stark white text, was a single word: Finally. Bridget stared at the drawing. Her brain completely failed to connect the childish scribbles to the drawing she had made for Jerimy in the basement ten years ago. To her, it just looked like a drawing made by a five-year-old child. Her heart stopped. The blood rushed out of her head. A child. Jevon Rocha had a child. Suddenly, everything clicked into place. The ten-year secret Zane was talking about. Jevon's violent reaction to her calling it a burden. He wasn't hiding a crush. He was hiding a secret child! He had a baby mama somewhere, and he had finally found his lost kid. A wave of absolute horror washed over Bridget. She was getting tangled up in a messy, high-stakes billionaire family drama. She was the naive employee sleeping with a man who had a secret family. Panic gripped her throat. She tapped the three dots in the top right corner of the screen. Her finger trembled as she hit the red text. Block User. She threw the phone to the bottom of the bed and pulled the covers over her head, her heart hammering against her ribs. Miles away, in the driver's seat of the parked Maybach, Jevon stared at his phone screen. He had posted the drawing in a moment of desperate vulnerability, hoping she would see it and remember. Instead, the screen flashed a grey error message. User not found. Jevon's jaw clenched. The phone cracked under the brutal pressure of his grip.