"You really thought I'd stay away?" Bianca says, returning to a world that kept moving without her. In this thrilling sequel to Obsessed. Bianca's back is she the same? What happened while she was away? With her return, old wounds are reopened, forc...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
There was a heaviness in the air.
Not the kind that pressed down on your chest or gave you something to name. No, this one was quieter. Slicker. The kind that wrapped itself around your spine and waited. I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath me, and stared out at the skyline like it might spell out the answer. It didn't.
Something was off.
I couldn't put my finger on it, but I could feel it. The unease wasn't screaming yet but it was whispering, and I knew better than to ignore a whisper. I'd built my life off listening to what others didn't. And right now, something or someone was moving. I just didn't know where or how hard the hit was going to land.
I tapped the pen against my desk. Click. Click. Click.
Across from me, the glass of sixteen-year-old Scotch sat untouched. It was past noon well into acceptable hours in my world but even that didn't feel right. Maybe I was just paranoid. Or maybe I was the only one in this city sharp enough to know when the knife was about to fall.
I turned back to my desk and pulled up the contracts. Everything was neatly stacked. Sorted. Labelled. Because I demanded it that way.
The expansion deal in Marrakech had just closed. Ten million into renovation, staff relocations scheduled for next week. A subtle blend of heritage and excess, I had the best architects flown in because second-best makes me physically ill. That one was solid. So was the beachfront in Sardinia, soft launch had gone smoother than expected, and I'd already been approached by a royal family about a long-term lease.
Restaurants were turning over profit. The one in New York Adriane had a waiting list three months long. Michelin was sniffing around. Paris had its usual drama, but nothing new. A chef walking out isn't a threat when I already own the next ten waiting to replace him.
So what the hell was it?
I exhaled sharply and stood up, walking to the window that spanned my entire office. People below moved like insects, chasing time they'd never control. Up here, I owned mine. Or I was supposed to.
I ran a hand through my hair, jaw clenching.
Back at my desk, I sat down and clicked the pen again. The tension was still there.
I pulled up my calendar. Meetings, charity gala, site visit to Madrid next week. My sister was scheduled for lunch on Friday—God help me. And Isabelle had texted three times asking if I remembered our dinner plans, she suddenly wanted to talk.
I hadn't.
And no, I didn't feel guilty.
My eyes caught the reflection of myself in the screen black shirt, sleeves rolled, watch sharp against my wrist. Some people wore suits to play the part. I wore skin that fit, because I was the part. I didn't build Dawson Enterprises by being soft. I inherited legacy, yes but I rewrote the story. I carved my own path through stone.
