Lashirah_Hash

> He saw her once—and that was enough.

Elena Rivers was just a waitress at a high-end gala she didn’t belong to, filling in for someone else's shift. She didn’t know her spilled glass of champagne would be the moment Damien Vale—billionaire, recluse, and dangerously obsessive—noticed her.

He never spoke to her. Not then. But he watched.

And when he wanted her closer, he made it happen.

Now, Elena is working directly under him, unaware that the life she thinks she controls is already entangled in the hands of a man who doesn't just want her—he needs her.

He’s patient. He’s powerful. And he’s been planning this from the moment she walked into his view.

OBSESSION IN SILENCE

The black card sat on her nightstand like a dare.

No words. No threats. Just an address, a time, and the knowledge that he was watching.

But when midnight came, she found herself standing outside the old estate on the outskirts of the city, heart hammering against her ribs like a warning. The gate creaked open at her presence, almost as if it had been waiting.

Inside, the air smelled of sandalwood and something darker—masculine, invasive.

She walked down the candlelit hallway like a woman under a spell.

Damien stood at the end of it, dressed in black, his shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal the lean strength of his arms. His eyes were fixed on her—consuming, unreadable, the kind of gaze that made you forget your name.

"You came," he said, quiet, satisfied.

The door closed behind her with a soft click, and suddenly it was just the two of them, breathing the same air, suspended in a moment too fragile and too sharp to break.

Damien stopped inches away. "Say the word," he said, his voice like smoke. "And I'll step back."

His fingers brushed her jaw—so gentle, so reverent it made her ache.

"I remember you like this," he whispered. "Defiant. Shaking. Burning."

His mouth was hungry, claiming, like he'd waited years and wouldn't wait a second longer. Elena gasped into him, but the protest died as his hands cupped her waist and pulled her flush against him. Heat flared between them—violent, primal. Her fingers curled into his shirt. She hated herself for how good it felt.

His lips left hers only to graze down her neck, his breath hot. "Tell me to stop."

He spun her, pressing her against the wall, one hand pinning her wrists above her head. His other hand trailed down her side, slow, testing.

His mouth found the hollow of her throat, and she broke—her body arching, surrendering. His hand slid beneath her blouse, fingertips skating across her bare skin.

And when he touched her—really touched her—there was no turning back.

Elena moaned, low and fractured, and Damien drank in the sound like a promise.

The wall, the night, her name on his lips—it all blurred. She wasn't sure if this was breaking or becoming something new. All she knew was she'd never felt more alive—or more lost.

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