My Billionaire’s Obsession

Amelia Cape City clung to the fringes of the tropics, where monsoon winds carved time into two primal seasons: the scorching breath of drought and the drowning fury of rains. Eight years ago, Amelia Hart had first stepped onto its soil—a wide-eyed teenager clutching a college acceptance letter and two suitcases of secondhand clothes. She came to wait tables at a beachside café, unaware that the cape would etch Alexander Voss into her bones like a tattoo. Back then, she’d known him only as "Mr. Voss"—a title spat out by locals with equal parts fear and fascination. He didn’t resemble the slick CEOs from her tattered romance novels. No, Alexander moved like a Sicilian don from those gritty gangster films her father used to watch: all sharp angles and coiled violence, flanked by stone-faced men who smelled of gun oil. His face—a paradox of aristocratic bone structure and feral intensity—made her throat go dry. Girls like you don’t collide with men like him, she’d told herself. Yet collide they did. For three years, she became his open secret. The elite snickered about the "Velvet Castle Mistress"—a naive scholar traded for diamonds and silk. Amelia let them talk. She devoured his library, dissected his boardroom tactics, and turned his cold patronage into armor. By the end, she could outmaneuver his lawyers in verbal chess. Now, as her plane descended through monsoon clouds, Amelia wondered if the city still remembered her—or the nuclear fallout of their parting. Cape City International Airport, 10:03 AM Rain lashed the tarmac in horizontal sheets when Amelia emerged from baggage claim. The air smelled of wet asphalt and frangipani—a nauseatingly familiar cocktail. Her linen blouse clung to her skin as she bolted for cover, heels clicking like gunshots. Her phone buzzed. Lila’s name flashed on the screen, followed by a torrent of texts: Lila: You alive?? Lila: Remember—breathe, b***h. Amelia: Landed safely. Currently being baptized by Cape City’s monsoon. Send towels. Lila Clark had been Amelia’s anchor since third grade—two decades of shared secrets, stolen lipsticks, and tear-soaked phone calls. This time, Amelia had crossed twelve time zones and survived three flight cancellations to stand as Lila’s maid of honor. Jet lag gnawed at her bones, but she’d clawed her way to Cape City on sheer willpower. “Lila, I’m here. Just landed,” Amelia said, dodging luggage carts as she headed toward the ride-share pickup zone. The rain had tapered to a simmering mist, clinging to her eyelashes like liquid guilt. “Don’t you dare take a cab!” Lila’s voice crackled through the phone, sharp as a fire alarm. In the background, someone yelled about misplaced eyelash glue. “This city’s a labyrinth now—they built a whole damn tunnel under the bay! Stay put. My driver’s ten minutes out.” Amelia smiled faintly, picturing Lila in bridal chaos—one hand clamped to her phone, the other probably mid-manicure. “Relax, Bridezilla. I lived here for four years. I can handle a taxi.” “Relax?” Lila hissed. “You’re the one who ghosted this place like it was Chernobyl. What if you end up in some unmarked van?” “Then I’ll text you the license plate before they dismember me.” “Not funny, Millie.” The childhood nickname—used only by Lila and Amelia’s late mother—prickled her eyes. She swallowed hard. “Go glue rhinestones to something. I’ll be fine.” A beat of silence. Then Lila exhaled, her tone softening. “Just… share your location, okay? Ethan insisted on hiring ex-Navy SEALs for wedding security. Paranoid idiot.” Ethan Cross. Lila’s fiancé—a tech mogul with a jawline sharper than his stock portfolio. Amelia had only met him via pixelated Zoom calls, but she’d memorized his tells: the way his left thumb twitched when lying about Lila’s shoe addiction, the calculated pauses when asked about his "consulting" clients. “Location shared,” Amelia said, watching her Uber icon blink on the map. “Now go be a glitter bomb.” She thumbed the end call button— “Milie.” Lila’s voice froze her mid-step. “Yeah?” A clatter of trays. A muffled curse. Then, quieter: “I saw the guest list. He’s… coming.” Raindrops hissed against the pavement. Amelia’s grip tightened on her phone. “Ethan swears it wasn’t his idea,” Lila rushed on. “Some investor arm-twisting bullshit. But I wanted you to know before—” “It’s fine.” The lie tasted like battery acid. “Bull. Shit.” Amelia stared at a billboard across the street—Alexander’s face glared back, hawking luxury condos with a smirk that could curdle milk. VOSS HOLDINGS: Redefining Horizons. “I survived him once,” she said. “Yeah, and he survived you,” Lila muttered. “Barely.” The name Alex still ached like a bruise that never healed—a phantom limb Amelia refused to acknowledge. Even now, eight years later, her pulse quickened at the memory of his hands: one moment tracing poetry down her spine, the next crushing wine glasses to bloody shards when provoked. Lila’s voice turned urgent. “His assistant dropped off the gift half an hour ago. I swear I didn’t know until—” “It’s fine,” Amelia cut in, too brightly. She stared at her distorted reflection in a rain puddle. “Wedding gifts aren’t blood money. Keep it.” “f**k that.” Lila’s whisper sharpened. “He could’ve sent a grenade bouquet for all I care. You think I’d take anything from that psycho after what he did to you?” Amelia’s throat tightened. Some wounds refused to scab over. “Does he know you’re back?” Lila pressed. “No.” The lie slipped out smoothly. Then, softer: “Or… I don’t know if he does.” A derisive snort. “Oh please. That bastard’s probably had drones tracking you since you boarded the plane. This ‘gift’? It’s a f*****g flare gun.” Rain seeped into Amelia’s loafers as she forced a laugh. “Dramatic much? Maybe he’s just being polite.” “Polite?” Lila’s manicured nails probably dented her phone case. “If he shows up tonight and tries to—” “He won’t.” Silence crackled between continents. When Amelia spoke again, her voice was steel wrapped in silk. “Listen to me. Alexander Voss will never come near me again. Not after…” Not after I drove a letter opener into his ribs. Not after he locked me in his penthouse for seventeen days. Not after he growled “If I ever see your face again, I’ll bury it” through bandages and bourbon breath. Lila’s gasp pierced the static. “Holy f*****g s**t. You stabbed him? And he—he imprisoned you? Why the hell didn’t you—” “Because you’d have stormed his castle with a flamethrower,” Amelia said wearily. A cab finally pulled up, its tires hissing. “And we’d both be dead.” “You think I’d let that silver-eyed Dracula—” “Lila.” Amelia yanked the car door open, rain slashing her cheeks. “I survived. He survived. End of story.” “Bullshit. That’s a Marvel post-credits scene, not an ending.” “Then consider this the reboot no one asked for.” She slid into the cab, leather seats reeking of disinfectant. “Gotta go. Love you.” “Millie, wait—” She hung up. The driver eyed her through the rearview. “Bad breakup?” Amelia stared out at Alexander’s billboard—his smirk now blurred by rain-streaked glass. “Worse,” she said. “A war.”