Oops, I Blocked the Billionaire CEO

Chapter 1

My phone lit up with a w******p message.

V: [Meeting finally over.]

V: [Baby, you looked so beautiful last night — crying in my arms in that dream.]

My cheeks warmed as I stared at the screen.

I'd been in an online relationship with this man — "V" — for five months. In a city like New York, I was just another nobody junior financial analyst, walking on eggshells every day in a high-pressure job. The only time I felt like I could breathe was when I was looking at this chat window.

For five months, we'd silently agreed: no face pics, no voice calls. Just words and cropped photos. The last picture I'd sent him was a shot of my collarbone.

But I was tired of being just an anonymous name in his phone.

I held my phone and typed: [The weather looks good this weekend. Maybe we could finally meet?]

Before I could hit send, a photo popped up on my screen.

V had sent a work picture.

V: [Still going over tomorrow's project file.]

I tapped to open it. The shot showed a dark wooden desk, a half-empty black coffee sitting in the middle, a document spread out beside it with messy, sharp handwriting in the margins.

I instinctively pinched to zoom in, trying to make out his handwriting.

But as the image expanded, my eyes locked onto something in the upper-right corner.

At the very edge of the frame, there was a brown paper file in a sealed plastic envelope. On the seal, crisp and clean, sat a dark red wax stamp.

A falcon in mid-flight, its beak sharp, its talons gripping a coin.

The AC blew down from the ceiling. I went completely still at my desk.

I knew that stamp.

Six months ago, when I first joined Sterling Group, the department's digital filing system crashed. I was the lowest on the totem pole, so they sent me down to the basement-level three archive room to sort through paper records.

That afternoon, two men in black suits with special badges wheeled a metal case into the archive room. I was carrying a stack of reports and caught a glimpse of the brown paper envelopes inside that case. Every single one was sealed with the same dark red falcon wax stamp.

The archive supervisor saw me looking. He grabbed my arm and yanked me behind a shelf.

"Keep your eyes to yourself," he hissed. "That's top-level classified material. Only the highest-ranking executives at the Group are allowed anywhere near those falcon-sealed files. Anyone below that level who stares too long can pack their bags and get out of New York tomorrow."

After that warning, that falcon became a symbol of absolute danger in my mind.

And now, there it was. Sitting casually on V's desk. At the exact moment he was texting me the filthiest things.

I stared at the screen, my knuckles white around the phone.

V wasn't just some random guy on Wall Street. He was from the top floor of Sterling Group. The kind of people I had to lower my head for when I passed them in the elevator.

For five months, I'd let my guard down around him. I'd sent him photos in silk pajamas, complained about the company's strict clock-in policy, even trashed my greasy incompetent boss without holding back.

I thought we were having a secret romance. But if he had top-level Sterling clearance, all he'd need is five minutes to dig up everything about a low-level employee.

Every private thought I'd shared, every moment of vulnerability — it all landed in the hands of someone dangerous. This online romance could turn into a workplace disaster at any second.

My phone buzzed twice, snapping me out of it.

V: [Why aren't you answering? Busy?]

V: [Did you not like the photo?]

I looked at the "meet up" message I hadn't sent yet and deleted it instantly.

I couldn't meet him. If we met face to face, if he realized the "baby" he'd been sweet-talking every night was his own employee — I'd be screwed.

I forced myself to calm down and typed fast: [Gotta go, meeting coming up. Talk later.]

I locked the screen and flipped the phone face-down on my desk.

I couldn't just ask, "Are you a Sterling Group executive?" That would be as good as confessing. Until I figured out who he really was, I needed to keep my mouth shut.

A few minutes later, I picked up my phone again, opened w******p, and scrolled up.

He could pretend all he wanted online, but in real life, he would have left traces. I was going to dig through five months of chat history and find something I could use to pin down his identity.