Bound to the Billionaire's Dark Obsession

The clock on the wall of Blackwood Tech’s executive floor read 11:47 p.m. Most sane people would have left hours ago, but Elena Voss wasn’t most people. She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the weight of her tablet and rolled blueprints pressing against her hip like a reminder of how close she was to finally paying rent on time. Three months behind. One more late payment and her landlord had promised eviction. So when the urgent after-hours design consultation request came through from Damian Blackwood’s personal assistant—triple her usual rate, cash bonus upon completion—she hadn’t hesitated. Now she stood alone in the cavernous glass-walled conference room on the 78th floor, the city of New York glittering far below like scattered diamonds. The only sound was the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional ping of her phone as she reviewed the mood board one last time. Minimalist. Stark. Masculine. No warmth allowed. Exactly what the rumors said about the man himself. She hadn’t met Damian Blackwood in person—few people had unless they were on his payroll or in his bed—but the brief said enough: “Mr. Blackwood requires absolute discretion and efficiency. Do not waste his time.” Elena didn’t plan to. She set her tablet on the long obsidian table and began unpacking fabric swatches and material samples, arranging them in precise rows. The room smelled faintly of expensive leather and something sharper—ozone, maybe, from the storm that had rolled through earlier. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Elena straightened, smoothing her black blazer. She expected the assistant again, the crisp woman in the pencil skirt who’d escorted her up. Instead, the double doors opened and Damian Blackwood walked in alone. He was taller than the photos suggested, broader in the shoulders, moving with the kind of predatory grace that made the air feel thinner. Dark suit, no tie, top button undone. Black hair slightly damp from the rain outside, swept back but already rebelling. Eyes the color of winter steel. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak at first. He simply looked at her. Elena felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch—cold, assessing, stripping away pretense. Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs. “Miss Voss,” he said finally, voice low and smooth, the kind of baritone that could command boardrooms or bedrooms with equal ease. “You’re late.” “I arrived at 11:15 as instructed,” she replied, keeping her tone even. “Your assistant said you’d be delayed.” His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “And yet here I am.” He crossed the room in long strides, stopping at the head of the table. Close enough that she caught the faint scent of rain and cedarwood cologne. “You have ten minutes to convince me why I shouldn’t fire the last three designers and start over.” Elena swallowed once. “Then I’ll use eight.” She launched into her presentation—clean lines, matte black finishes, strategic pops of midnight blue to break the monotony without softening the edge. She moved around the table, pointing to swatches, explaining how each choice reinforced power rather than comfort. Damian didn’t interrupt. Didn’t nod. Just watched. When she finished, silence stretched taut between them. Finally, he spoke. “You talk fast.” “I was told not to waste your time.” Another almost-smile. “You listened.” He reached for the tablet, fingers brushing hers for the barest second. Elena felt electricity snap up her arm, sharp and unwelcome. He scrolled through her digital portfolio, expression unreadable. Then he set the tablet down. “Acceptable,” he said. “You start tomorrow. Full access to the penthouse floor. My assistant will send the contract.” Elena exhaled slowly. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwood.” He turned to leave. That was when it happened. Her phone—still on the table, screen unlocked from the presentation—buzzed once. Loud in the quiet room. A notification from her voice-memo app. The one she always left running during site visits in case she needed to capture lighting notes or client comments later. She’d forgotten to stop it when she arrived. The recording had been live the entire time she was setting up. And now it was playing back—automatically, because she’d set it to loop the last thirty seconds when idle. “…ensure the offshore accounts remain untraceable. The merger documents are already falsified. If anyone asks, the Cayman transfer was routine maintenance. Burn the paper trail.” A male voice. Not Damian’s. But someone in this building. Someone high enough to be in this wing after hours. Elena’s blood turned to ice. She lunged for the phone. Damian was faster. He snatched it before her fingers closed around it, thumb swiping to pause the playback. The room went deathly still. He looked down at the screen, then up at her. His eyes were no longer winter steel. They were black ice. “Miss Voss,” he said softly, dangerously. “You just heard something you were never meant to hear.” Elena’s mouth went dry. “I—it was an accident. I record notes for work. I didn’t—” He stepped closer. She backed up until her spine hit the glass wall, the city lights haloing behind her. “You will delete it,” he said. “Right now.” Her hand shook as she reached for the phone. He held it out of reach. “Or,” he continued, voice dropping to a lethal whisper, “you can listen very carefully to the offer I’m about to make you.” Elena’s heart slammed against her ribs. She had the sudden, crystal-clear understanding that she had just stepped into something from which there might be no clean exit. Damian tilted his head, studying her like a predator deciding whether to kill or keep. “One year,” he said. “You belong to me. My companion. My shadow. My… whatever I require. In return, I ensure this little recording never sees daylight. And neither do you—if you try to run.” Elena stared at him, pulse roaring in her ears. “You can’t be serious.” His smile was slow. Cruel. Beautiful. “Oh, I’m very serious, Elena.” He leaned in until his breath brushed her ear. “Welcome to my world.” He straightened, slipped her phone into his pocket, and walked out. The doors closed behind him with a soft, final click. Elena stood frozen against the glass, the city sprawling endlessly below. She was trapped. And the hunter had just claimed his prize.