The rage and gossip

Christopher POV

The image wouldn't leave me. Olivia. With Clinton Belton. 

The word 'dating' was a hammer blow to the chest. I brought her here. To this city. Gave her the chance she didn't deserve. 

The thought spiraled – a vortex of possessiveness tightening around my throat. How could she do this?

A cold, logical voice – the one I usually trusted – tried to cut through the turmoil. What's it to you, Chris? Clinton's not bad looking, successful. And let's face it, you're a bachelor. A catch, sure, but still… available.

The voice only fueled the fire. She can't be with Clinton. 

I won't let it happen. The words clawed their way out of my throat, a strangled denial rising from some dark, unknown place within me. I slammed my fist on the table, the force rattling the water glasses, scattering pens across the polished surface. A useless, childish act.

It wasn't enough.

I grabbed my phone, the sleek metal suddenly feeling alien, almost repulsive, in my grip. And then, without conscious thought, I hurled it.

 The phone exploded against the wall, a shower of plastic and glass, like a miniature, violent starburst of my shattered control. A shard of plastic grazed my cheek.

The room, usually buzzing with quarterly reports, went silent. 

Twenty faces stared back at me, a mixture of shock and apprehension. I saw the flicker of surprise give way to something else – fear. A junior analyst, barely out of college, was trembling visibly. The air crackled with tension, thick with my own volatile energy.

"Meeting adjourned," I barked, my voice rough, unfamiliar even to myself. "Until tomorrow." I gestured sharply towards the door. "Nathan, clear the room."

Nathan, my ever-reliable second-in-command, stepped forward, his expression carefully neutral.

 Not a flicker of judgment in his eyes, but I knew he was assessing the damage, both physical and professional. "Of course, Chris."

The exodus was swift, silent. Chairs scraped against the polished floor, a sound that grated on my raw nerves. 

I watched them go, each retreating back a testament to my own spectacular loss of control.

When the last of them had disappeared, leaving only Nathan and the shattered remains of my phone, I turned to the window. The city sprawled beneath me, a glittering tapestry of steel and glass. Usually, I appreciated the view – a symbol of my own success, my dominion. 

Today, I saw none of it.

Olivia. The name burned in my mind, a brand seared into my consciousness.

 Why did she have this effect on me? Why did every stolen glance, every casual touch, every whispered word send my carefully constructed world teetering on the brink of collapse? Was it hurt pride? No, it was more than that. 

It was the feeling that something that was mine, rightfully mine, had been stolen from me.

I picked up a shard of glass, the edges sharp and unforgiving against my skin.

 I pressed it hard against my thumb until it was bloody. Olivia, you'll pay for this. The silent vow vibrated in the air, a promise etched in blood.

I stalked out of the conference room, ignoring Nathan's concerned gaze. The elevator felt too slow, too confining. 

I needed movement, the physical burn of exertion. I headed for the stairs. Maybe the rhythmic descent would quell the storm raging inside me.

As I descended, I heard voices drifting up from the floor below. Female voices. My staff.

"Did you see his face?" one of them whispered, her voice laced with awe and a disturbing hint of excitement. "I've never seen him that angry."

"It's about Olivia, definitely," another replied, a hint of knowing amusement in her tone. "Who else could it be?"

"What did Olivia do?" a third voice chimed in, sounding genuinely puzzled.

A ripple of laughter. "You haven't heard?"

I froze, my hand clamping down on the cold metal railing. Olivia's name. A leash, tugging me back into the fray. I shouldn't be doing this, I should walk away.

 But I couldn't move. A strange compulsion, a desperate need to hear their words, kept me rooted to the spot.

"It's not just the online gossip," the first voice continued, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 

"He's furious about the rumors of Olivia and Clinton Belton… you know… together."

A jolt, like an electric shock, ran through me. How had they guessed?

"You know," the second voice mused, "I always thought Mr. Chris had a thing for Olivia. And she for him.

 But I never thought she'd give up and go for Clinton Belton. It's all Jessy's fault, that witch."

"But how could she afford a house in Golden Estate if she's not sleeping around with men?" the first voice countered, her tone sharp with malice.

"Please. She's dating Clinton Belton! How can't she afford it? I heard even Mr. Chin is afraid of her. He even mistakenly called her Miss Deev junior! I think she has a connection with Miss Deev that's how, I don't think she's all those things you said."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Sleeping around? The image, unbidden and unwanted, flashed through my mind. Olivia, her eyes sparkling, her laughter echoing… with Clinton Belton. With other men.

"Lies!" the first voice spat, venom dripping from every syllable.

 "There is nothing you can tell me that would make me believe she's not sleeping around with men.

 Olivia is from the countryside and would always be a local girl, she's a whore. 

Haven't you witnessed it before, the way those men in the company look and talk to her every time don't you know, almost all the men in the company has been given her gifts."

My stomach churned. I remembered the small gifts on her desk. I'd scoffed. A hand-painted mug, a scarf... tokens of appreciation, I had thought. Now, each one felt like a subtle, humiliating reminder of my blindness. Payment, to them and to her. She was using me.

I thought of the sacrifices I'd made for her, the opportunities I'd passed up, the sleepless nights I'd spent worrying about her well-being. I housed her. I fed her with my own money, my sweat. 

The realization twisted in my gut, a bitter, acrid taste. So she has been feeding me with the money she got from selling her body. To them, she's a charity case. She's nothing without me.

The words were a brand seared into my soul. How could she stoop so low?

I wanted to scream, to rage, to tear the building down brick by brick. But I couldn't. I was frozen, paralyzed by the sheer weight of betrayal.

 I stood there, on the cold, unforgiving stairs, listening to the whispers that were tearing my world apart. The Christopher that everyone knew, the collected, in control, was gone.

I turned and walked back up the stairs, each step heavy with a newfound, icy resolve. The game had changed. 

She'd changed it. And he would play. He wouldn't let her ruin what he built. He would crush her before she had the chance to destroy him. 

But for some reason I still walk back to that same spot, to hear more