One Night With The Possessive CEO

Morning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, bright streaks across the tangled sheets of the Four Seasons penthouse suite.

Jevon opened his eyes. The heavy fog of sleep vanished instantly. He turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto the woman sleeping soundly beside him. The cold, impenetrable mask he wore for the world was completely gone, replaced by a raw, consuming intensity.

Bridget shifted in her sleep. The silk sheet slipped down her back, exposing her right shoulder blade.

Right there, against her pale skin, was a faint, coin-sized red birthmark.

Jevon's breath caught in his throat. His fingers curled into tight fists against the mattress. The memory of a dark, damp basement ten years ago slammed into his brain. He remembered the terrifying grip of the kidnappers, and he remembered the brave little girl who had stood in front of him, shielding his trembling body.

It was her. He had suspected it last night in the dim light of the lounge, but seeing the mark confirmed it. The girl he had searched for relentlessly for a decade was lying in his bed.

His chest he heave. He reached out, his large hand trembling slightly as he moved to brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek.

Before his fingers could make contact, the phone on the nightstand erupted into a harsh, vibrating buzz.

Jevon's jaw clenched. He snatched the phone to silence it, throwing a quick glance at Bridget to ensure she hadn't woken up. He slid out of bed, his bare feet silent on the plush carpet, and strode out to the soundproof balcony.

He pressed the phone to his ear.

"Speak," he ordered, his voice dropping back to its usual freezing temperature.

His executive assistant, Alex, sounded frantic on the other end. The European division was facing a catastrophic financial hemorrhage. The board of directors was demanding the CEO's immediate presence on a secure video conference.

Jevon pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked through the glass doors at the woman in his bed. His muscles tightened with the overwhelming urge to crawl back under the covers and lock the doors to the outside world.

But the logical part of his brain took over. He couldn't let the company burn. He turned away from the glass, walking briskly into the massive walk-in closet. He pulled on a custom-tailored suit, the fabric acting like armor, transforming him back into the ruthless billionaire the world knew.

Before leaving, Jevon stopped at the mahogany writing desk. He picked up a hotel notepad and a heavy fountain pen. He hesitated. Writing his real name might send her into a panic, considering she had just caught her fiancé cheating and was emotionally fragile.

He pressed the nib to the paper.

Wait for me.

He placed the note on the nightstand. Next to it, he set down his limitless black card, resting it atop a secondary, thicker piece of hotel stationery. On it, he quickly penned Alex's direct line: If you need anything, call this number. Your safety is my priority. It was a silent promise of protection, a physical manifestation of his desire to give her everything. He leaned over, pressing a feather-light kiss to her forehead, and walked out the door.

Thirty minutes later, Bridget groaned. A blinding headache pulsed behind her eyes. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples and forced herself to sit up.

The silk sheet fell to her waist. She looked down and gasped. Her skin was covered in dark red marks. The fragmented memories of last night's absolute madness exploded in her brain. The lounge. The Maybach. The desperate, sweaty heat in this very bed.

She whipped her head around. The luxurious suite was completely empty.

Panic seized her throat. Bridget scrambled out of bed, dragging the sheet with her. Her bare feet sank into the thick wool rug as she stumbled toward the nightstand.

Her eyes fell on the piece of paper and the sleek black card resting beside it.

She picked up the card. The heavy metal felt like ice against her palm. A sickening wave of humiliation washed over her. She had given herself to a stranger to numb her pain, and he had left her a credit card. He thought she was a high-end escort. He thought he could buy her.

Her stomach churned violently. She threw the black card back onto the desk, the metal clattering against the wood. She grabbed the note, not even registering the handwriting, crumpled it into a tight ball, and hurled it into the trash can.

She ran into the marble bathroom. She turned the shower on freezing cold and stood under the icy spray for a long time, letting the freezing water numb her chaotic thoughts and overheated body. She closed her eyes, desperate to wake up from this surreal hangover and clear her head of the lingering scent of cedarwood that clung to her senses. She pulled on her wrinkled trench coat from the night before, her fingers fumbling with the buttons.

In the entryway, she found her shoes. The heel of her right pump was completely snapped off.

She didn't care. She shoved her feet into the ruined shoes and limped out of the suite, sprinting down the hallway and throwing herself into the elevator like a criminal fleeing a crime scene.

She stared at her pale, terrified reflection in the elevator doors. She bit her lower lip hard, tasting copper. She swore to herself that last night never happened. It was a nightmare, and she was waking up.

She burst through the hotel lobby doors and into the chaotic morning traffic of Manhattan. The freezing air shocked her system. She threw her hand up, flagging down a yellow taxi, and practically fell into the backseat.

"Brooklyn. Fast," she told the driver.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. Five new texts from Jacob, begging for forgiveness. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second before she hit block. She deleted his contact entirely.

The taxi pulled up to her apartment building. Bridget took a deep, shaky breath. She had to pack her things. She had to get out of that apartment today.

She pushed open the front door, expecting the place to be empty.

Jacob was sitting on the living room sofa. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a greasy mess. He looked up as she walked in.

His gaze immediately dropped from her eyes to her neck. The collar of her trench coat had slipped, exposing the dark, unmistakable bruises blooming across her collarbone.

Jacob's face turned a sickly shade of gray, the muscles in his jaw twitching violently.