Signed to the ruthless CEO

“Oh—no… no, no, no!”

The scream tore from Valerie’s throat before she could even blink . Her head didn’t just ache; it throbbed violently, as if her skull were a drum being beaten . Every nerve sending a raw ache , and screaming with a sharp, relentless pain that refused to stop.

Where am I ? Please, God, what did I do?

She tried to push herself upright, but her muscles protested. The room didn’t just spin; it made her feel nauseous. As her vision finally cleared, her breath dry, then died in her throat.

Clothes—her favourite dress, now nothing more than pieces of fabric—were scattered across the cold floor. They were torn, crumpled, and utterly ruined. A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature raced down her spine as the weight of her nakedness hit her. Her skin was a design of aftermath: dark, fingerprint-shaped bruises evident on her pale flesh, and angry red hickeys formed designs across her neck, her shoulders, and the soft curve of her thighs.

She looked wreaked. Used. Wretched. And then she saw it—the faint, unmistakable traces of blood staining the white bedsheet beneath her.

Her heart didn’t just skip a beat; it seemed to stop entirely, leaving a empty space in her chest.

Valerie tried to stand, but her legs were like water, wobbling violently as they threatened to betray her. Her fingers trembled so hard she could barely grip the edge of the nightstand for support. Every excruciating step toward the bathroom sent a fresh jolt of sharp pain through her body. The realization hit her like a physical blow: this had been her first time.

And she couldn’t remember a single second of it.

Tears escaped, hot and stinging, rolling freely as she fumbled with the shower handle. The spray of hot water brutal on her skin, but it couldn’t loosen the cold knot of shame and guilt tightening in her stomach Fear and regret were a poisonous cocktail in her veins. She cursed her own mind for the blank spaces, the void where memories should be.

The only thing she had left was the memory of the club.

The loud bass. The colourful lights. The burn of cheap alcohol sliding down her throat, a desperate attempt to cauterize the wound in her heart.

She had gone there to drown her world. Her ex-boyfriend hadn't just broken up with her on her birthday; he had used the occasion to announce his engagement to her stepsister, Claire.

My birthday. The universe wasn't just cruel; it was against her.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, the steam had offered a small measure of relief and comfort, though the dull ache in her bones remained. Her original clothes were a lost cause. She scavenged through the hotel wardrobe and found a white shirt and a pair of long black pants—likely left behind or provided by the suite. She didn’t care about the fit or the fashion. She dressed with speed, packed her belongings, and fled the hotel without a single backward glance.

She made a frantic stop at a pharmacy, her hands still shaking as she paid for morning-after pills. She swallowed them dry right there on the sidewalk, the bitter taste a perfect match for her mood, before heading home.

But the silence of her room offered no peace. The moment the door clicked shut, the gravity of the situation collapsed onto her. She curled into a ball on her bed, soaking the pillows with a fresh wave of tears until her chest physically hurt.

How did I get there? Who was he?

The questions were a wave of torture. She couldn’t tell a soul. Not even Nora. Especially not Nora.

Sleep finally claimed her out of sheer exhaustion, but it was a shallow, restless thing. It didn't last.

The shrill ring of her phone shattered the silence. Nora’s name flashed on the screen—a beacon of cheerfulness she couldn’t handle.

“Hey, Valerie! How are you feeling?” Nora’s voice was a full of concern. “I heard about everything that happened on your birthday. I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it! Are you okay? Have you eaten?”

Valerie swallowed a sob, forcing her voice to remain calm, though her throat felt like it was lined with shit She offered a few reassurances, desperate to end the call before her mask slipped. Nora promised to visit soon, and for the first time in their lives, Valerie found herself praying for her best friend to stay away.

Normally, Nora’s visits were the highlight of her week—a shot of pure joy. But Nora was too observant. She would see through the facade in Valerie’s eyes. She would see the way she winced when she moved. And Valerie wasn't ready to speak the truth when she didn't even know the man’s name.

To kill the time, she made a bowl of noodles she did feel like eating and let a movie play to fill the silence. Eventually, she felt a bit of comfort. It was Sunday, and she needed air. Anything to stop the spinning in her head.

She threw on a simple yellow top and jeans, letting her hair fall loose to hide the marks on her neck, and applied a quick swipe of lip gloss.

At the park, the atmosphere was painfully wholesome. She sat on a bench, watching children chase each other with infectious laughter. For a few minutes, the heaviness in her chest eased.

Then, she saw them.

Claire and Ryan. Her stepsister and her ex, walking toward the mall directly opposite the park.

Her breath freezed . Her lungs felt squeezed..

She tried to turn away, to vanish into the thin air , but fate was in bitter mood . Claire’s eyes locked onto her, and a bright, ridiculing smile stretched across her face as she found her path straight toward Valerie.

“Hey, Valerie!” Claire chirped, her voice dripping with a sweetness that made Valerie’s stomach turn.

Ryan followed close behind. He didn’t look guilty; he looked smug. His eyes raked over Valerie with a pity that made her skin crawl. He asked how she was holding up, but the words were empty.

“I didn't mean for the breakup to be so sudden,” Ryan said, his tone casual, as if he were discussing the weather. “But your sister... Claire is just too good. She’s like a goddess, honestly. If you want a stable relationship next time, Valerie, maybe you should take some pointers from her. The way she dresses, the way she talks... even the way she fucks me. You wouldn't even let me touch you.”

The air left Valerie’s lungs. Before she could react, Claire chimed in, leaning into Ryan’s side.

“Just so you know, I’m carrying Ryan’s child,” Claire said, her eyes shinning with triumph. “I really hope you can move past him, especially since you’ve had that little crush on him since high school.”

Claire patted her stomach . “After all, you’re my sister. If not for you, I never would have met the love of my life.”

To seal the humiliation, Ryan leaned down and kissed Claire—deeply, —right in front of her. No shame. No remorse.

They turned and walked into the mall hand-in-hand, leaving Valerie standing there as her world crumbled a little further. Her old wounds weren't just open; they were being salted.

Of course, she thought bitterly. Claire always won. Since they were children, Claire was the princess and Valerie was the obstacle. The villain in Claire’s perfect Cinderella story.

Valerie fled the park, her mood was completely ruined . She collapsed onto her bed, scrolling aimlessly through social media, her life feeling like a shell.

Just as the sun began to dip, her phone rang again. It was the elderly woman from the flat across the hall. She was a kind, woman who treated Valerie like a surrogate daughter. She was calling to remind Valerie about their standing Sunday dinner.

Valerie wanted to decline, but the woman was too sweet to disappoint.

At five o’clock, Valerie dragged herself to the neighbor's door and rang the bell.

“It’s open!” the woman called out.

The apartment was peaceful. The air was thick with the comforting scents of roasted chicken, crispy fries, and fresh cookies. Valerie forced herself to eat, though every bite felt like heaven.

The woman’s sharp eyes didn't miss the sign from Valerie’s mouth. “Something is wrong, dear.”

“Just tired,” Valerie lied, the words tasting like bile.

She helped clear the dishes, accepted a small bag of cookies, and retreated to her own apartment. In the comfort of her bathroom, the weight returned, heavier than before. She set her alarm for work, staring into the dark and wondering how her life had become a nightmare in twenty-four hours.

Miles away, the roar of an engine shattered the night.

Ellan drove like a man possessed, his sleek car moving seamlessly through the city. He bypassed red lights with a blatant disregard for the law, narrowly missing collisions that would have killed a lesser driver. Horns blared in his wake, but he didn't hear them over the roar of his own heart beat in his ears. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached, his knuckles white as bone against the leather steering wheel.

Fifteen minutes of high-speed later, his tires screeched to a halt in front of a crumbling, abandoned factory.

He stepped out, went inside the factory and a wave of blood and metal welcomed him. His men straightened the moment they saw him, their faces masks of submission, but Ellan ignored them.

“Where is he?”

His voice didn't just carry; it thundered. Cold. Unforgiving. A sound that sent a physical shiver down the spines of the men standing guard.

They led him to a reinforced steel door at the end of a dark corridor. Inside, the room was dimly lit. A middle-aged man was chained to metal bars, his body a map of bruises and fresh cuts. He looked like a man who had already being to hell.

Ellan began to roll up his sleeves with a terrifying calmness.

He pulled a handgun from his pocket, spinning it with a deadly finesse. The metallic click of the bullet coming off echoed like death . Then, without warning, he fired.

The bullet whistled past the man’s ear, landing itself in the wall behind him.

The man let out a raw, animalistic scream that tore through the factory.

“Who is she?” the man sobbed, his voice cracking. “I only did what I was told! Bella was supposed to be the one in the room with you! I swear on my life—I don't know how that other girl got there!”

Ellan’s eyes narrowed. The CCTV footage from the hotel had been expertly wiped. There were only fragments left— ghosts. But one detail was burned into Ellan’s memory: a small, beautiful scar on the girl’s stomach.

His grip tightened on the gun.

He tossed the weapon onto a nearby table and turned his back on the prisoner. “Release him,” he said, his voice dropping to a deadly, cool silk. “But put a trail on him. I want to know everywhere he breathes.”

He paused, a dark thought crossing his mind. Bella. She would be dealt with in due time.

For now, he had a dinner to attend. His parents had been insistent, and in his world, some obligations couldn't be ignored—even when your blood was boiling.

The family mansion was glowing of light and prestige—too calm and too silent for the storm raging inside him. He ignored the polite greetings of the maids, walking straight into the formal dining room. His father was already there.

Ellan offered a sharp, clipped greeting and took his seat.

Then, he heard a voice that made his skin crawl.

And then he saw her.

Bella.

Something in Ellan’s head snapped. Rage, hot and violent, surged through him. His fists clenched under the table.

Bella rushed toward him, a bright smile on her face as she reached out to touch him—

He didn't hesitate. He caught her wrist in a grip of iron and slammed her hand down onto the mahogany table. The crack of the impact echoed through the room like a gunshot.

His mother gasped, her eyes blazing with a warning look, but Ellan didn't care.

The rest of the dinner was full of tension. Bella sat beside him, leaning in closer than necessary, whispering sweet nothings as if he hadn't just nearly crushed her wrist. Ellan’s responses were short, when he chose to respond at all.

The moment the meal ended, he stood and walked out without a word of polite departure.

Bella scrambled after him, catching him near his car.

“Why are you acting so cold, Ellan?” she asked, reaching for his arm again.

Ellan spun around, his movement a blur. He grabbed her arm with enough force to bruise. “Don’t play dumb with me,” he hissed, his voice low, lethal, and vibrating with a promise of violence. “You set me up.”

A flicker of genuine shock crossed Bella’s face—quick and unmistakable—before she masked it with a pout.

He shoved her back, and she stumbled, gasping for air as he climbed into his car and drove away into the night.

Bella stood in the driveway, trembling and struggling to catch her breath. She had been so careful. Every detail had been planned to ensure she was the one in that bed—proof that he belonged to her.

But fate had twisted the knife.

When Ellan arrived at his penthouse, he went straight to his study.

“Bring me a bottle,” he snapped at the maid.

A few minutes later, a soft knock came at his bedroom door. He didn't answer.

The maid pushed the door open —and froze.

Ellan had just stepped out of the bathroom. Water trailed down the hard, defined lines of his body, and steam swirled in the air around him.

“I—I didn't hear a response,” she stammered, her face flushing as she turned to flee.

“Stop.”

His voice sliced through the room like a blade. She froze in her tracks.

Ellan sat in a leather armc

He slammed the glass onto the table, the amber liquid splashing over .