THE CEO'S TWISTED OBSESSION

Chapter 3: The Predator’s Collection

The pale morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing the marble floor of the penthouse in a cold golden hue. I woke with pain spreading through my body—a brutal reminder of what had happened the night before. Beside me, the other side of the bed was already empty, yet the sharp masculine scent of sandalwood still lingered on the pillow, as if claiming this place as his territory.

I sat up trembling, pulling the silk blanket over my body now marked with faint red traces—the evidence of Adrian Vance’s possession. Every movement felt heavy. My gaze fell on a black satin nightgown neatly placed at the foot of the bed, accompanied by a small card written in bold capital letters:

“WEAR THIS AND MEET ME IN MY STUDY. DO NOT MAKE ME WAIT, ELARA.”

There was no word of “please.” Only command.

After cleaning myself with a storm of mixed emotions, I walked through the long corridors of the luxurious apartment. This place did not feel like a home; it felt more like a private museum—silent, intimidating, and cold. Until I stopped in front of a massive double door made of teak wood.

I pushed it open slowly, and my breath caught.

This was not just a study.

It was a gallery.

And the subject… was me.

Along the wide walls, dozens of canvases of various sizes were displayed. All of them were my paintings. Paintings I had once sold cheaply to anonymous buyers during my college years, works I thought were lost forever, even rough sketches I had thrown into the trash ten years ago.

Adrian sat behind a large mahogany desk, sipping his black coffee while staring at one of my paintings—a self-portrait I had created during the loneliest period of my life.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” his baritone voice broke the silence, making me flinch. He did not look up, his eyes still fixed on the canvas. “Most people believe the value of art lies in technique. But to me, the value of art lies in the suffering of its creator. And you, Elara… you paint suffering beautifully.”

“Why do you have them?” My voice came out hoarse, almost breaking. “All of this… you were that anonymous buyer?”

Adrian set his cup down and stood. He walked toward me, each step radiating a predatory aura that made me want to retreat, but my back was already pressed against the closed door. He stopped right in front of me, trapping me between his arms and the door.

“I didn’t just buy your paintings, Elara. I collected fragments of your soul over the past ten years,” he whispered close to my face. His breath smelled of coffee and mint. “Every time you felt alone, every time you cried because your mother adored Bella more than you, I was there. Watching you from the shadows. Waiting for the right moment to take everything.”

I stared into his dark eyes, searching for any trace of humanity, but all I found was twisted obsession. “You’re insane, Adrian. This marriage… it’s not really about my family’s debt, is it?”

Adrian let out a low chuckle that sent a shiver through my chest. His hand rose, his thumb brushing my cheek—a touch that felt gentle yet threatening at the same time. “That debt was just an excuse I gave your father so he would hand you over willingly. Bella? She was merely a pawn I used to corner you. I let her run because I knew you would be the only one left to pay the price.”

He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a thin tablet, holding it out to me. On the screen was CCTV footage from an old warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Bella was tied to a chair, her mouth covered, her expression filled with fear.

My heart stopped. “Bella… what did you do to her?”

“She’s safe, as long as you behave,” Adrian said coldly. He pulled the tablet away and looked at me with a hungry gaze. “But don’t misunderstand, Elara. I didn’t save her. I’m merely keeping her as collateral. If you try to run from me, or if you try to find another man to save you… I will make sure Bella pays for every second with unimaginable suffering.”

My legs gave way, and I collapsed to my knees, no longer able to bear the weight of reality. The man I had married was not just a ruthless CEO; he was a psychopath who had mapped every inch of my life since I was a teenager.

Adrian knelt in front of me, lifting my chin so I had to look at him. “Don’t cry, Elara. You should be proud. There is no woman in this world I love in such a destructive way as I love you. You are my most precious masterpiece. And starting today, you will live in this golden cage, paint only for me, breathe only for me, and beg only me.”

He kissed my forehead reverently, a kiss that felt like the seal of a curse.

“Now go to the dining room. The staff has prepared breakfast. After that, I want you to start painting my portrait. I want to see how you portray the ‘devil’ who now owns your life.”

I could only stand frozen as he rose and left the room with steady steps. I turned my gaze toward the paintings on the walls. They were no longer works of art. They were silent witnesses to how I had been trapped in an obsession carefully planned for a decade.

I was trapped.

Not only by the law of marriage, but by invisible chains forged by a man who would never let me go, even if I begged for death.

Inside that magnificent study, I realized one thing:

Adrian Vance did not want me to love him.

He wanted me to break in his hands, so that only he would be the one capable of putting the pieces of me back together.

That was his obsession.

And that was my new hell.