Oops, I Blocked the Billionaire CEO

Chapter 2

Morning.

I stared at the Excel spreadsheet on my screen, my eyes dry and aching from zero sleep.

After recognizing that falcon seal yesterday afternoon, I barely slept. I combed through five months of w******p history, looking for anything that could help me identify him offline.

But it was nearly impossible. V was careful — painfully careful. His photos were always close-ups: hands on a keyboard, a coffee cup, blurry city lights through a car window. Nothing that could lead me to the real him.

Then, at three in the morning, I found something. A conversation from three weeks ago.

He'd been at a custom menswear store.

V sent a photo of accessories on a velvet tray: [The clerk recommended two tie clips. Can't decide.]

One was a minimalist silver bar. The other was a dark red gem — octagonal vintage cut, set in matte platinum.

I'd replied: [The dark red one. Subtle, but the details are gorgeous.]

V: [Alright, you pick. That's the one.]

It was the only thing I'd ever chosen for him in five months. A niche design. Not something you'd see on just anyone.

I picked up my phone, flipped it over, and opened the chat.

After I'd said I had a meeting yesterday, he hadn't messaged again. The conversation was still frozen at yesterday afternoon.

I took a deep breath and typed: [Morning.]

After a few seconds, I added: [Are you wearing that tie clip I picked out today?]

I put the phone down. My palms were sweating.

It was the only test I could run. If he was wearing it today, all I had to do was find an excuse to walk past the executive elevator bank, or check which senior executives had meetings on the calendar. Maybe I could nail down who he was.

A minute later, the screen lit up.

V: [Of course.]

My heart slammed against my ribs. He was wearing it.

"Chloe. Grab your laptop. My office."

David's voice cut through from behind me.

I turned around. David was standing at the door of his private office, frowning at me. He was wearing a slightly-too-tight dark gray suit, holding a thermos.

"Be right there."

I locked my phone, unplugged my laptop, and carried it to his office.

David was our department manager. Mediocre at his job, only kept in his position thanks to his wife — a woman from a wealthy family with some connections upstairs. Every important piece of analysis or risk modeling that came through our department, he dumped on me, then submitted it under his own name.

I walked into his office.

David sat down behind his desk and set his thermos down hard. "Is that risk model for this afternoon's executive meeting ready?"

"It's done, but I'm still double-checking some numbers." I set my laptop on his desk and started to pull up the data.

"Forget double-checking." He waved me off impatiently. "Send me the draft now. This executive meeting is different — I heard someone from the top floor might sit in. We can't afford any screw-ups."

Same old story. Stealing my work.

I looked at his slightly glossy, anxious face and felt a wave of disgust. "Fine. I'll send it to you."

I reached for my laptop to leave.

"Wait." David stopped me.

He stood up and leaned over to grab a printed document from the corner of his desk. As he bent forward, the collar of his suit jacket gaped open, and I caught a glimpse of his tie.

Right in the middle — a tie clip.

A dark red gem. Octagonal vintage cut. Matte platinum base.

My grip on the laptop tightened.

That was the exact one I'd picked for V three weeks ago. A custom, ultra-niche brand.

And ten minutes ago, V had told me on w******p: [Of course I'm wearing it.]

I lifted my eyes from the tie clip to David's face. Slightly puffy, carrying that particular oily sheen of a middle-aged corporate man.

"What?" He noticed me staring, looked down at his tie, then touched the clip. A hint of pride crept into his voice. "Goes well with the suit, doesn't it?"

A wave of nausea hit me so hard I almost gagged.

David was V?

The man who called me "baby" on w******p every night?

The man I'd depended on for five months, fantasized about?

The man who'd sent me that photo with the falcon wax seal?

I looked at his face again.

No. That couldn't be right. David was just a department manager who rode his wife's coattails. How could he have access to top-level classified documents?

But then a more disgusting possibility clicked into place.

David went upstairs for meetings all the time. He could've easily passed by some executive's office, or stood next to a powerful person's desk, and snapped a picture of that falcon-sealed document. He took borrowed symbols of power and used them online to pretend he was some high-level tycoon, tricking young women into giving him attention and private photos.

In real life, he was a mediocre middle-aged man crushed by his wife's family. Online, he got to play the dangerous, powerful alpha to feed his ego.

That explained why he never showed his face or did voice calls in five months. He was afraid of being exposed.

"What are you spacing out for?" David frowned and knocked on his desk. "Did you hear me? Get me that draft. Don't screw up my afternoon meeting."

I stared at his condescending face, remembering the message he'd sent me last night: "You looked so beautiful crying in my arms in that dream."

The nausea was nearly overwhelming.

"I heard you." I forced the words out through clenched teeth, turned around, and walked out.

Back at my desk, I dropped my laptop harder than I meant to.

I grabbed my phone and opened w******p.

I felt like a complete i***t. Five months of my thoughts, my feelings, my trust — all of it stolen by the married man I hated most at this company.

The thought of David sitting in his office, acting superior all day while zooming in on my pictures on his phone — it made me physically sick.