Wrecked by the CEO

CHAPTER 3:THE WEALTHY CEO

I didn't see him in the morning.

By the time he'd probably woken up, I was already gone, slipping out of his house before the sun fully claimed the sky. No note. No goodbye. Just the faint trace of his cologne on my skin as I pulled the door shut behind me.

Standing under the scalding spray of my penthouse shower, I pressed my palms against the cool tile and exhaled.

Last night was intense. But it was also a one-time thing. I hadn't come to LA for distractions. I came here to work, for ambition, for a future I'd been building toward for years.

By noon, I was in my sharpest charcoal suit, hair swept into a sleek knot, heels clicking against marble as I stepped into the towering glass building of Wolfe Organization & Holdings.

This pitch meant everything. Landing their investment could push my project into a different stratosphere entirely. I hadn't even glanced at the names on the meeting invite, too focused on rehearsing my opening lines, my numbers, my market research.

The boardroom was bright, all floor-to-ceiling windows and polished chrome. A dozen suits arranged themselves around the massive table. And then, my pulse stalled.

At the head of the table, leaning back like he owned not just the company but the very air in the room, was him.

Steven.

The man from last night. The stranger who'd had my dress on his floor just hours ago. The man whose touch still lingered like an electric aftertaste.

God help me.

He was in a tailored navy suit this time, crisp white shirt, top button undone, giving just enough of a glimpse of his throat to trigger every memory I'd been trying to bury since sunrise. His dark hair was perfectly styled, but his eyes, sharp, assessing, dangerously amused, landed on me and stayed there.

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. He simply smiled. Slow. Like he'd been expecting me all along.

I forced my feet to move, taking my seat at the far end of the table and opening my laptop with more composure than I felt. He's just another CEO, I told myself. Focus on the pitch.

The presentation began. I stood, voice steady, slides advancing in sequence. I spoke about market gaps, projected growth, competitive positioning. My numbers were tight, my delivery sharper than a scalpel. Heads nodded around the table.

Then Steven spoke.

"Impressive work," he said, voice low and smooth. "But I have a few questions."

They weren't generic. They were precise, probing my logistics model, questioning supply chain feasibility, challenging my proposed marketing spend. Each time, I answered without hesitation, backing every point with data I'd burned into memory.

Something shifted in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Then something that looked almost like approval. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying me like I'd just become more than the woman who'd been in his bed last night.

When the presentation ended, the applause from the other executives was warm. Steven closed his leather portfolio.

"Ava," he said, the first time he'd used my name, "stay behind. We need to finalise a few details."

The room emptied until it was just the two of us.

He rose and moved toward his private office with the same unhurried confidence that seemed to follow him everywhere. I followed, pulse betraying me.

His office was imposing: dark wood, deep leather chairs, the city skyline stretching wide behind the glass wall. He rounded his desk but didn't sit. Instead, his gaze swept over me in one slow, deliberate pass.

"I didn't think I'd see you again," he said. "I woke up and you were gone."

I crossed my arms, keeping my voice level. "Why didn't you tell me you were Steven Wolfe? You didn't even mention your last name."

One side of his mouth curved. "I don't usually give strangers my full biography before taking them home. Besides, you said you didn't want to know. You said you just wanted me."

I let out a low laugh, shaking my head. "It all makes sense now: the car, the house... I suppose you just got ten times more complicated. But last night was a one-time thing. I'm in LA to work."

His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with something far more unsettling. "Funny," he said, leaning back against his desk, "because last night didn't feel like something you wanted to end at sunrise."

The room felt smaller. My breath caught, but I held my ground. "You think you can just say that and I'll—"

He pushed off the desk, closing the distance between us in three slow, deliberate steps. "I think," he murmured, "that you're still thinking about it. About me."

I stepped back, but the wall stopped me. His hand rested on the wall just above my shoulder, not touching, but close enough to make the air feel thin.

"This is a bad idea," I said, though my voice softened against my will.

"Maybe," he replied. "But I've built an empire on bad ideas that worked out better than anyone expected."

His gaze dropped to my mouth. My heartbeat thudded in my ears.

"I'm serious, Steven."

"And I'm not?" His voice was steady, low. "You think I don't want your business? You're wrong. I do. But I also want you. And I don't believe those two things are mutually exclusive."

I swallowed hard. I should have walked away. I should have pushed past him and kept this professional.

But my feet weren't moving.