One Night With The Possessive CEO

Jacob shot up from the sofa, his finger trembling as he pointed at Bridget's neck. "Where the hell were you last night?" he yelled, his voice cracking with rage. Bridget let out a harsh, dry laugh. The sound scraped against her throat. "Are you seriously asking me that? Do you think you're the only one allowed to screw around in other people's beds?" Jacob choked on his next breath. His face flushed a dark, angry purple. "You did this to get back at me! You threw away three years of our relationship because of one mistake!" Bridget felt a surge of pure disgust. She didn't waste another breath on him. She marched straight past him into the bedroom, dragging her large suitcase from the closet. She started throwing her clothes inside, not caring if they wrinkled. Jacob lunged forward, grabbing the handle of the suitcase. "You're not leaving!" Bridget's blood ran cold. She grabbed the heavy ceramic lamp from the nightstand and smashed it against the wooden doorframe. The ceramic shattered with a deafening crack, sending sharp shards flying across the floor. Jacob jumped back, his eyes wide with fear. Bridget zipped up the suitcase, her hands shaking with adrenaline. She dragged it to the front door. She dug her apartment keys out of her purse and threw them as hard as she could. The metal keys hit Jacob directly in the chest. "We are done," she spat, slamming the door behind her. Out on the street, the adrenaline finally crashed. A sharp, pulling ache radiated through her lower abdomen. Her legs felt weak, The reckless physical exertion of last night had taken a severe toll on her body. She dragged her suitcase to a nearby storage locker, then hailed another cab to a discreet private clinic in Manhattan. The doctor in the emergency gynecology department examined her quickly. She handed Bridget a prescription for anti-inflammatory pills and a small tube of soothing ointment. "No strenuous physical activity for the next few days," the doctor warned sternly. Bridget's face burned with intense heat. She shoved the tube of ointment into the very bottom of her tote bag, burying it under her planner and makeup bag. She glanced at her watch and her stomach dropped. She was going to be late for work. She sprinted the last two blocks to the massive glass-and-steel high-rise that housed her company. Her lungs burned as she pushed through the revolving doors into the grand, high-ceilinged lobby. The moment she stepped inside, the atmosphere felt wrong. The lobby was dead silent. Every single employee was standing rigidly against the walls, their heads bowed, not daring to make a sound. Bridget was too panicked about being late to notice. She kept running forward. Her broken heel caught on the polished marble floor. Her ankle twisted violently, and she pitched forward, bracing herself for the painful impact. The impact never came. A large, warm hand clamped around her wrist like a steel vice. The grip was strong enough to bruise. Bridget gasped, her body jerking to a halt. The sleeve of a custom suit brushed against her arm, and the cold metal of a Patek Philippe watch pressed into her skin. She followed the arm up and collided with a pair of pitch-black, bottomless eyes. Bridget's lungs stopped working. The blood drained entirely from her face, leaving her dizzy. It was him. The man from the lounge. The man who had left the black card. "Watch where you're going!" A slightly angry voice rang out. Bridget flinched. Standing right behind the man was Alex, the terrifying executive assistant to the CEO. Alex was glaring at her. "You are disrupting the CEO's inspection!" CEO? The word hit Bridget like a physical blow to the stomach. Her knees buckled. She had slept with Jevon Rocha. The highest authority in the company. The man who held her entire career in his hands. Jevon's gaze swept over her pale, terrified face and her trembling legs. A dark, dangerous light flickered in his eyes. He didn't even look at Alex. He simply tightened his grip on Bridget's wrist and pulled her flush against his side. "This employee looks severely ill," Jevon announced, his voice echoing coldly through the silent lobby. "She requires immediate medical assistance." "Mr. Rocha, I'm fine, really-" Bridget stammered, trying to pull her arm away. Jevon's hand slid from her wrist to her waist, his fingers digging into her side with an undeniable, possessive force. He practically dragged her toward the private executive elevator at the end of the hall. The heavy metal doors slid shut, cutting off the shocked stares of the entire lobby. The enclosed space instantly filled with the heavy scent of cedarwood. Bridget pressed her back flat against the cold metal wall, her chest heaving. "Mr. Rocha, I am so sorry about last night," she babbled, her voice shaking uncontrollably. "I was drunk. I didn't know who you were." Jevon stepped closer. He placed one hand flat against the wall right beside her head, trapping her. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "Why did you run?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. The sheer pressure of his presence made Bridget dizzy. She shrank back, her tote bag tilting precariously on her shoulder. The zipper had been left open. The small tube of private ointment slipped out, bouncing off her shoe and rolling to a stop right between Jevon's polished leather shoes. The elevator stopped at the top floor. Jevon looked down. He read the medical label on the tube. His Adam's apple bobbed violently, and the air in the elevator seemed to freeze. He bent down, picked up the tube, and wrapped his long fingers around it. Without a single word, he grabbed Bridget's wrist again and hauled her out of the elevator. He dragged her down the empty hallway, shoved her into his private executive lounge, and slammed the heavy wooden door shut, The lock clicked with a loud.