The CEO’s Secret Addiction

Chapter 4

Julian's Pov.

She moved like a ghost I couldn’t stop chasing.

Even from ten floors up, I could recognize that gait, graceful, careful, deliberate. My hand froze mid air as I reached for the glass of scotch on my desk. Through the wall-to-ceiling window, I watched Lena Hart cross the courtyard below, her hair catching the last slice of the evening sun. The golden strands shimmered like fire against the dusk, the same way her hair used to.

For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

Lena turned slightly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, and my chest tightened. That small gesture, I’d seen it a thousand times before, in a different life, on a different woman. A woman who was supposed to be dead.

“Damn it…” I muttered, my voice hoarse, barely audible in the silence of my office.

Every time I looked at her, my mind betrayed me. The curve of her jaw, the way she smiled when she thought no one was looking, the quiet confidence in her movements,everything about Lena screamed Evelyn.

Evelyn.

My wife. My ghost. My curse.

I turned away from the glass, running a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the image. It was useless. She’d already burned herself into my mind like acid etching on glass.

The office was silent now. Everyone had gone home. Except me. Except her scent, faint traces of vanilla and jasmine still lingered in the air from when she’d been here earlier, stammering, blushing, trying not to meet my eyes while I teased her.

She was adorable when she flustered.

Dangerously adorable.

I sank back into my chair, loosening my tie, staring at the faint reflection of my own eyes in the window. There was something wrong with me, there had to be. I’d buried Evelyn years ago, or at least, I’d buried what was left of her. And yet here I was, losing my mind over her mirror image.

Lena Hart.

I’d told myself I let my advisor keep her after he hired her because she was efficient, disciplined, and smart, qualities I admired in a secretary. But the truth? The truth was uglier. I’d hired her because she looked like her. Because I wanted to see that face again. Because I wanted to believe the universe was giving me one last chance to touch what I’d lost.

And now, every day, she was right there just a few feet away smiling, typing, saying

“Good morning, Mr. Cross” with that same melodic voice.

It was torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture.

I stayed there for a while, watching the city lights flicker on. Then, when she finally disappeared from view, swallowed by the crowd, I stood and straightened my cuffs. Work was done for the day. But my mind wasn’t. My obsession never clocked out.

The ride home was quiet. My driver didn’t dare speak, he’d learned long ago that silence was safer.

*****

The mansion loomed in front of us, tall, dark, and empty like a museum for memories. I dismissed him and entered alone. The moment the door closed behind me, I felt the shift. The facade of the CEO fell away, replaced by the man no one knew existed.

I went downstairs down to the basement. The underground layout stretched wide beneath the house, dimly lit, lined with canvases and photographs.

My sanctuary.

My madness.

The air smelled of oil paint and dust. And memories.

On the far wall hung portraits of Evelyn, dozens of them. Her laughing. Her sleeping. Her crying. Each one a different shade of obsession. I’d painted them all. I told myself it was therapy. It wasn’t. It was compulsion.

I walked past them, fingers grazing the edges of the frames. The one near the corner still had her eyes unfinished. I never could decide what color they truly were. Some nights they were blue, other nights green depending on what my guilt wanted to remember.

And then I saw her again.

Not Evelyn, Lena. In my mind’s eye. That same tilt of the head, that same impossible resemblance.

I sat before a blank canvas.

For a long moment, I did nothing. Just stared. Then I picked up my brush.

I told myself I wouldn’t. That it was wrong. That I’d stop this madness before it crossed the line. But my hand moved anyway. Stroke after stroke, the shape of her emerged the outline of her cheek, the curve of her lips, the delicate arch of her brows.

It wasn’t long before her eyes came alive wide, questioning, almost afraid.

My heart hammered.

“She’s not Evelyn,” I whispered.

But the painting didn’t listen.

It looked back at me with the same softness, the same quiet sadness that haunted me every night since the day I lost her.

I dropped the brush. It clattered to the floor, streaking crimson across the tiles.

I pressed a hand against my temple, breathing hard.

“What are you doing to me, Lena Hart?” I asked the silence.

“Who the hell are you?”

No answer came, except the steady hum of the underground ventilation a low, mechanical rhythm that filled the air like a heartbeat.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the finished portrait. The resemblance was uncanny. Too uncanny.

That was when my phone rang.

The sound startled me, sharp, intrusive, real. I grabbed it off the table, glancing at the caller ID. It was Marcus,my friend who was an investigator.

Of course.

I hesitated before answering. My pulse hadn’t settled yet.

“Cross,” he said as soon as I picked up.

His voice was calm, too calm. “You’re still awake.”

“I could say the same to you,” I replied, my tone clipped.

A pause. Then, “I found something.”

My stomach tightened. “About Lena?”

“Yes.”

The silence that followed stretched taut between us.

Marcus cleared his throat.

“You’re going to want to see this yourself. It’s… not something I can explain over the phone.”

I frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Just come to my place tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice suddenly low.

“You’ll understand when you see it.”

Before I could respond, he hung up.

I stood there, phone still in hand, staring at the reflection of Lena’s painted face under the dim light.

A strange chill crept up my spine.

Something in the way Marcus spoke,the weight in his voice, told me whatever he’d found wasn’t going to be simple.

I turned back to the painting. Her eyes seemed to follow me, soft, pleading, alive.

For a fleeting second, I could’ve sworn she blinked.

I took a step back, breath catching. The lights flickered once, then steadied. I blinked, shaking my head. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe I was finally losing my mind.

Either way, I couldn’t look away.

“Tomorrow,” I murmured, pocketing my phone. “We’ll see who you really are, Lena Hart.”

And as the night deepened around me, I stood alone in the silence of my obsession the unfinished painting staring back at me like a secret I wasn’t ready to uncover.