MARRIED TO THE CEO I HATED

ceo 2

_Chapter 3: The Bullying_

5:47am.

My alarm wasn’t a sound. It was fear.

I was already awake, staring at the ceiling of the maid’s room. The bandage on my hand from last night felt too tight.

Day 2 in Hartwell Mansion.

I splashed cold water on my face and put on the black dress and white apron. It still smelled like bleach. My old slippers were by the door. The cut on my palm stung when I tied the laces.

6:00am sharp. I stood in the kitchen.

Mrs. Bello was already there, frying eggs. She looked me up and down.

“You’re alive.”

“Yes ma.”

“Good. Don’t make me regret vouching for you.”

Before I could ask what that meant, the kitchen door swung open.

Three girls walked in.

Expensive perfumes. Designer bags. Hair that cost more than my brother’s monthly drugs.

The one in front had pink lips, a sharp jawline, and eyes that sized me up like I was trash.

“Who’s this?” she asked Mrs. Bello, like I wasn’t standing there.

“The new maid,” Mrs. Bello said flatly. “Zara.”

The girl laughed. “Zara? Like Mr. Hartwell’s last name?”

Her friends giggled.

“I’m Tasha Cole,” she said, stepping closer. Her heels clicked on the marble. “Damian’s fiancée. Well, not officially yet. But everyone knows.”

Fiancée.

The word hit my stomach. I kept my eyes down. “Good morning, ma.”

“Don’t ‘ma’ me.” Tasha picked up my bandaged hand and examined it. “What happened? Clumsy?”

“I cut myself.”

“Hmm.” She dropped my hand. “Listen carefully, Zara. This house has rules. Rule number one: You do not speak to Mr. Hartwell unless he speaks to you first.”

“Rule number two: You do not go near his office.”

“Rule number three: You stay invisible. Got it?”

I nodded. “Yes, ma.”

“Good girl.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Now make us breakfast. And don’t mess it up. Damian hates cold eggs.”

They sat at the dining table while I cooked.

I cracked eggs with one hand, hiding the bandage. My palm throbbed.

“Did you hear?” One of Tasha’s friends whispered. “Damian bought another company last night. He works too hard.”

“Of course he does,” Tasha said, flipping her hair. “He’s going to be the youngest billionaire in Nigeria. He doesn’t have time for... staff.”

Staff. That’s what I was now.

I served the food. They ate. They complained.

“These eggs are dry.”

“The juice is too sweet.”

“You call this toast?”

I cleared the plates in silence. My chest burned. Not from the work. From the way they looked through me.

At 8am, Damian came down.

Black suit. Perfect hair. Same cold face.

Tasha immediately stood up and walked to him. “Good morning, babe. I brought the girls to discuss the charity gala.”

Damian nodded once. He didn’t look at me.

“Don’t make noise,” he told the room, then walked to his office.

Tasha watched him go, then turned to me.

“You heard him. No noise. So while we’re in the garden, you will clean every room on the ground floor. If you miss one spot, I’ll tell Damian.”

“Yes, ma.”

---

By 1pm, I was mopping the hallway outside Damian’s office.

My back hurt. My feet hurt. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the file from last night.

_Former Owner: Michael Hartwell._

My father.

I had to find proof. I had to get into that office.

The door was closed. I pressed my ear to it. Silence.

I knocked softly. No answer.

My hand was on the knob when—

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Tasha.

She stood behind me with her arms folded. The other two girls behind her, filming on their phones.

“I was—cleaning,” I said.

“Cleaning? The door is closed. That means you’re trying to go inside.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Liars and thieves,” Tasha cut in. “That’s what maids from Onitsha are, right?”

My face burned. “My father was—”

“I don’t care who your father was.” She stepped forward. “You think because Damian bandaged your hand last night, you’re special? Please. He does that to everyone. He feels guilty.”

The word _guilty_ stuck in my head.

“Now get on your knees and clean the door handle,” Tasha said. “With your tongue.”

My blood went cold. “What?”

“You heard me. Clean it. Or I’ll tell Damian you were stealing.”

The girls started recording.

I looked at the door. Then at them.

My hands shook. Six months. I just needed six months.

I bent down.

Right before my face touched the handle, the door opened.

Damian stood there.

His eyes went from me on the floor, to Tasha, to the phones.

The hallway went dead silent.

“What. Is. This.”

Tasha immediately switched to sweet voice. “Babe, nothing. She was just being clumsy again. I was teaching her—”

“Get up.” Damian’s voice was low.

I stood up quickly, head down. Tears threatened but I swallowed them.

He looked at Tasha. “In my office. Now.”

“Babe, I—”

“NOW.”

Tasha’s face fell. She walked in. The other girls scurried away, phones down.

Damian turned to me. For a second his eyes dropped to my bandaged hand.

“Kitchen. Finish your work.”

“Yes, Mr. Hartwell.”

I ran.

---

I didn’t see Damian for the rest of the day.

Mrs. Bello told me later that Tasha left the house crying.

At 9pm, I was washing dishes when Damian walked into the kitchen.

He was in a black t-shirt and sweatpants. No tie. No suit. He looked younger. Tired.

Mrs. Bello excused herself immediately.

It was just us.

He picked up a towel and started drying plates. I froze.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Helping.”

“You don’t—you’re not supposed to—”

“Did Tasha hurt you today?”

The question hit me out of nowhere.

I kept scrubbing. “No, Mr. Hartwell.”

“Don’t lie to me, Zara.”

I looked up. “She didn’t touch me.”

He nodded. Dried another plate. “The contract says you work here. It doesn’t say you’re a punching bag.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can.” He set the towel down. “You’ve been handling things alone for a long time, haven’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

He walked to the fridge and pulled out bread and eggs. “Sit.”

“What?”

“Sit. You haven’t eaten.”

I sat at the kitchen island, confused. The billionaire CEO was making me food.

He slid a plate to me. Toast. Eggs. Juice.

“Eat.”

I ate slowly, afraid this was a trick. He leaned against the counter, watching me.

“About last night,” he said. “The file. You weren’t supposed to see that.”

My spoon stopped halfway. “Michael Hartwell was my father.”

“I know.”

The room went still.

“You know?”

“I knew your father, Zara. He was my partner.”

Partner.

The word didn’t make sense. “Then why did you take the company from him?”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated? He died 6 months later. Broke and sick.”

“I know that too.” His voice was quiet. “Which is why I made you the offer.”

I dropped my spoon. “You feel guilty.”

“Maybe.”

“Or you want to keep me close so I don’t expose you.”

He didn’t deny it.

We stared at each other across the kitchen island. For the first time, he didn’t look cold. He looked cornered.

“Finish eating,” he said finally. “6am tomorrow.”

He left before I could answer.

---

Back in my room, I couldn’t sleep.

Tasha was his fiancée.

He knew my dad.

He felt guilty.

I opened my notes again.

_Plan:_

1. Find proof my dad owned the company

2. Take it back

3. Don’t fall for Damian Hartwell

4. Stay away from Tasha Cole

I underlined number 4 twice.

Because the look in Tasha’s eyes today...

This wasn’t just about a contract anymore.

This was war.

And Day 2 was only half over.

To be continued.

Chapter 4: The Midnight Files

12:03am.

The mansion was silent.

Too silent.

I lay in the maid’s room with my eyes wide open. The bandage on my hand was gone. The cut had scabbed over. But my chest felt worse.

_“I knew your father, Zara. He was my partner.”_

Partner.

Guilty.

Complicated.

None of it made sense. And I couldn’t sleep until I knew why.

My phone buzzed under my pillow. Hospital:

_“Reminder: Brother’s drugs due in 2 days. 45,000 naira.”_

I deleted the message. Six months. That’s all I needed.

But not if I died not knowing the truth.

I slipped out of bed. Black dress. White apron. Barefoot so my slippers wouldn’t make noise.

Mrs. Bello’s rule: _No phone after 10pm. No visitors. Stay away from Mr. Hartwell._

She didn’t say anything about staying away from his office.

The hallway was dark. Only the moonlight from the windows lit the marble floor.

My heart was pounding so loud I was sure the guards outside could hear it.

Damian’s office door was at the end of the hall.

I reached it. Closed.

My hand shook as I turned the knob.

Locked.

Of course it was locked. He’s Damian Hartwell.

I looked around. Desperate. There had to be a key. Mrs. Bello had a ring of keys for all the rooms. But her room was on the other side of the kitchen.

Then I saw it.

Under the mat by the door. A spare key.

My breath caught. Who leaves a spare key under a mat in a billionaire’s mansion?

Unless someone wanted it to be found.

I picked it up. It was cold. It fit.

Click.

The door opened.

---

His office smelled like him. Expensive cologne, paper, and coffee.

The laptop was closed. The desk was clean. Too clean.

Last night there were files everywhere. Now? Nothing.

Except the framed photo on the wall. My dad, smiling. Next to Damian.

I walked to the desk. Opened the drawers. Pens. Contracts. Nothing about _Michael Hartwell_.

“Looking for something?”

I screamed.

Damian was in the leather chair behind me. In the dark.

Black t-shirt. Jeans. Laptop glowing on his legs. He hadn’t been sleeping.

“How long have you been there?” I whispered.

“Long enough to see you steal my spare key.” He closed the laptop. “You have 10 seconds to explain before I call security.”

“I’m not stealing,” I said quickly. “I just... I need to know what happened to my dad.”

“At 12am? By breaking into my office?”

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie.” He stood up. “I said it was complicated.”

He walked to me. Stopped inches away. I could smell his cologne.

“You want files? Fine.” He pulled out his phone, typed something. “Check your email.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

An email. From _d.hartwell@hartwellindustries.com_

Subject: _ACQUISITION FILE - MICHAEL HARTWELL_

Attachment

to be continued