One Night With The Possessive CEO
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.
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Chapter 4
The sound of the lock echoing in the massive room made Bridget flinch. She pressed her spine against the solid wood of the door, her fingers digging into the fabric of her trench coat.
Jevon tossed the small tube of ointment onto the expensive leather sofa. He slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket, his dark eyes fixed on her like a predator watching a cornered rabbit. He took a slow step forward.
"Mr. Rocha, please," Bridget begged, her voice trembling so hard she could barely form the words. "I just walked into the wrong area last night. I swear I won't tell anyone. Please don't fire me."
Jevon let out a harsh, humorless laugh. He closed the distance between them in two long strides. He reached out, his thumb and forefinger gripping her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes.
"Why did you throw the card away?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
Bridget bit her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. "I'm not a prostitute. You can't just buy me off after a mistake."
The muscle in Jevon's jaw ticked violently. His thumb dragged heavily across her swollen lower lip. "A mistake?"
Before Bridget could process his tone, Jevon bent down and scooped her into his arms.
Bridget let out a muffled shriek, kicking her legs. She pushed against his solid chest, absolute terror gripping her heart. She thought he was going to force her into some twisted workplace submission.
He carried her to the back of the lounge and dropped her onto a wide, velvet-covered bed.
"Lay on your stomach. Don't move," Jevon ordered, his voice leaving absolutely no room for argument.
Bridget froze, her body rigid with fear. She rolled onto her stomach, burying her burning face in the pillows.
She heard the rustle of fabric. Then, she felt the zipper of her skirt being slowly, deliberately pulled down.
"No, stop!" she gasped, trying to push herself up.
A heavy, warm palm pressed flat against the small of her back, pinning her to the mattress. The heat from his skin burned through her thin blouse. She lost all her strength, her body going completely limp under his commanding touch.
She heard the faint pop of the ointment cap. A second later, a dollop of freezing cold gel touched her inflamed skin.
Bridget gasped, her fingers gripping the bedsheets.
Jevon's touch was agonizingly gentle. His rough fingertips spread the cooling ointment with slow, precise strokes. The contrast between the freezing gel and the burning heat of his fingers sent violent shivers down her spine. She couldn't stop a soft, embarrassing moan from escaping her lips.
Jevon's breathing instantly turned ragged. His hand stopped moving. He stayed frozen for three agonizing seconds, fighting a brutal internal war. Then, he yanked the thick duvet over her body, burying her up to her neck.
He turned his back to her and marched straight into the en-suite bathroom. The sound of freezing water blasting from the faucet filled the room.
Two hours later, Bridget practically sprinted out of the building for her lunch break. She found Gigi sitting at a corner table in the cafe across the street.
Bridget collapsed into the chair, clutching her iced Americano like a lifeline. She leaned across the table and whispered the horrifying truth. The man from last night was the CEO.
Gigi slammed her hands on the table, her eyes widening. "Wait, the CEO? Are you okay? He didn't pressure you, did he?" Gigi scanned Bridget's face frantically. "Okay, crisis check over. Holy crap, Bridget! You hooked the biggest billionaire in the city! You won the lottery!"
Bridget shook her head violently, her stomach churning. "No. I just got out of a nightmare with Jacob. I am not playing power games with a man who can ruin my life with a snap of his fingers. I have to draw a line."
That afternoon, Bridget volunteered to deliver a routine signature file to the top floor. She needed to establish boundaries immediately.
She knocked on the heavy double doors of the CEO's office.
Jevon was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing a financial report. He looked up as she entered.
Bridget walked stiffly to the desk and placed the file down. She kept her eyes fixed on his tie, refusing to look at his face.
"Mr. Rocha," she said, her voice tight and formal. "I brought the budget files. And I wanted to say... I hope we can put yesterday and this morning behind us. I want to maintain a strictly professional relationship."
The office fell into a suffocating silence. Jevon stopped spinning the Montblanc pen in his hand. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. His dark eyes bored into her skull, heavy and calculating.
Just as Bridget felt her knees about to give out, Jevon leaned back in his leather chair. A cold, sharp smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"Fine," he said smoothly.
Bridget let out a massive breath she didn't know she was holding. She bowed her head slightly and practically ran out of the office.
The second the door clicked shut, the smile vanished from Jevon's face. His eyes burned with a dark, obsessive possessiveness. He slammed his hand down on the intercom button.
"Alex," Jevon barked. "Transfer the new high-intensity field project entirely to Ms. Frank's team. Effective immediately."
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8.2
Justine abandoned her career as a top trauma surgeon to marry Congressman Carl McConnell. She did it to fulfill her dying sister's last wish: to protect her son, Leo, from this ruthless political family.
But the seven-year-old boy she swore to protect shoved her into a freezing koi pond, then cried to his father that Justine tried to drown him.
Carl didn't even check the security cameras. He hugged his precious heir and looked at his freezing wife with pure disgust.
"Are you out of your mind? Trying to hurt the heir to the McConnell family!"
He locked Justine in a 55-degree wine cellar while she was burning with a 102-degree fever. When she finally told him the truth, Carl flew into a rage and hurled a heavy brass-cornered book at her face, slicing her cheekbone wide open.
His mother even ordered the staff to starve her for seven days to reflect on her sins.
Justine stood in the dark, blood dripping down her face, her heart completely dead. She had sacrificed her brilliant future and her pride for this family, only to be tortured and discarded like garbage. How could they be so utterly devoid of humanity?
She pulled out her old medical kit and stitched up her own face.
Then, she signed the legal documents to permanently relinquish her stepparent rights, threw them at the housekeeper, and calmly looked at her abusive husband.
"I am divorcing you, Carl."
9.3
Elliana sat on the cold marble floor, staring at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test. Overjoyed, she went to her husband Garrett’s study to surprise him.
But the room was empty. On his iPad, she accidentally opened a muted security video from the night before. As a graphic novelist trained in facial anatomy, she easily read Garrett’s lips as he spoke to their housekeeper.
"Increase the hallucinogens and the birth control. Let her become a complete lunatic."
The truth shattered her reality. Her three years of inexplicable exhaustion and mental collapses were orchestrated to keep her away from her ex-fiancé, who was now married to Garrett’s sister, Cristina. The nightmare worsened during a horrific highway crash. As their SUV flipped and caught fire, Garrett ruthlessly abandoned a pregnant Elliana in the crushed backseat. He dragged Cristina to safety, leaving Elliana to burn. She survived, but her right hand—her drawing hand—was permanently destroyed.
Lying in the hospital with her career ruined and her intellectual property stolen by the husband who forged her signature while she was drugged, a freezing void of hatred consumed her. She was nothing but a sedated decoy to hide Garrett's twisted, incestuous obsession with his own sister.
When Garrett knelt by her hospital bed with fake tears, Elliana didn't scream or expose him. Instead, she forced a pathetic, dependent smile, playing the perfect broken wife. She was going back to his penthouse to steal his encrypted files, ready to feed him to Manhattan's most cutthroat divorce lawyer and watch his empire burn.
8.8
Bella Danvers aka Isabella Powell is a 20-year-old college student who encountered the hot and ruthless CEO of the Rinaldi Corporation, Gabriel Rinaldi. They had a forgetful one-night stand that took a turn for the worst. Will he be able to find her before he is forced into an arranged marriage? Will she be able to tell him the news? Or will they be forced apart?
9.4
Blurb;
"I don't love you and I will never love you, Isabelle Yang!" I froze as the hatred in his eyes held me captive. I knew he wasn't happy with this arrangement. Neither was I.
"But I am your wife, Emerson."
"Wife?" He scoffed, stepping closer until my back hit the wall and I was trapped between his arms.
"You mean wife... or just the woman chosen to carry my heir?" His words were the truth. That was the only reason I was here. Still, they hurt more than I expected.
"You hurt my girlfriend by coming into our lives," he continued coldly.
"And I plan to make you feel twice the pain you caused her."
Then he did something worse than yelling-he sanitized his hands after touching me, as if I disgusted him.
He walked away, leaving me heartbroken and shaking, wondering what I had done to deserve so much hatred.
...
Isabelle Yang never imagined that her life could spiral into more darkness after catching her boyfriend and twin sister in bed on the night meant to celebrate their two-year anniversary.
Before she could even recover, a call from home changed everything. Her marriage had been arranged with the Winters-one of the most powerful families in Europe. And her husband? Emerson Winters, the ruthless heir who cared about only two things... himself and his childhood sweetheart, Salma Hayden.
But what happens when his love isn't enough to bear an heir, and he is forced into a marriage with Isabelle-a woman he sees as a mistake, a burden, an obligation?
What will become of two hearts trapped in a marriage where hatred and resentment rule the day?
Read this book to find out;
The Billionaire's Unwanted Wife
A novel by Queenebunoluwa15
8.0
Claire spent every waking moment protecting the transplanted heart beating inside her billionaire husband, Cooper. Though his grandfather forced their marriage, she loved him enough to endure his endless coldness.
When she received a frantic text saying Cooper was in a fatal car wreck, she ran through a freezing storm to save him. But she pushed open the VIP club doors only to find no doctors. Instead, Cooper was making out with his mistress, Kendall, while his wealthy friends erupted into malicious laughter at Claire's soaked, panicked state. It was all a cruel prank.
To force a divorce, Cooper treated her like garbage. He threw the custom meals she secretly cooked for his failing liver into the trash, giving Kendall the credit. When Claire begged him to stop drinking hard liquor for the sake of his fragile heart, he made a sickening demand.
"Go kiss that waiter on the mouth right now, and I won't touch another drop."
To keep him alive, Claire swallowed her pride and kissed the terrified boy while cameras flashed.
But her total degradation didn't earn his mercy. Cooper called her a sickening gold digger and walked out with his mistress, leaving Claire to the wolves. His best friend poured a sticky martini over her head, tore the strap of her dress, and raised a massive fist to smash her face. She had sacrificed her soul to keep his heart beating, only to be destroyed by it.
Just as the fist swung down, the heavy oak door was kicked off its hinges. Cooper stood in the doorway, his eyes burning with a terrifying, primal fury. He had only returned for a forgotten phone, but seeing another man's hands on his legal wife ignited a possessive rage that was about to burn the entire room down.
7.4
I was the heiress to the Sterling Group, engaged to Brook, the ultimate Wall Street savior who stepped in with emergency capital when my family's company faced sudden bankruptcy.
But one morning, I accidentally answered his hidden burner phone.
It was my sweet best friend, Chelsey. Through the speaker, I heard them laughing about how they successfully framed my brother for an eight-year federal prison sentence just to get the Sterling heir out of the way.
Worse, Brook casually admitted he had bribed the nurses at the private facility to swap my father's life-saving heart medication with placebos.
"Nature will take its course," he said coldly.
He was paying to let my father die so he could drain my last architectural patents, transfer them to his own enterprise, and kick me to the curb. Seconds later, Brook walked into the bedroom, brushed my hair behind my ear, and lovingly called me his sleeping beauty.
A wave of pure, physical nausea crashed over me. The man I was about to marry, the man the media praised as a fiercely devoted hero, was the monster orchestrating my family's complete destruction.
Tears were a luxury I could no longer afford.
I didn't scream, and I didn't confront him. Instead, I washed my face, slid the five-carat diamond ring back onto my finger, and drove straight to his headquarters.
If he wanted to use my family's tragedy to build his empire, I would play the perfect, broken fiancée—right until I burned it all to the ground.