HIS OBSESSION

Chapter 4: The Bargain

Victoria’s POV

He looked more devastating than usual in his black suit, with perfectly wavy hair and a clean-shaven face.

It felt like he had been rushed, judging by the way he caught his breath when I opened the door. That alone made me curious.

“Are you okay, Mr. Moore?” I tilted my chin forward, glancing left and right as if expecting someone else to appear—but no one did.

His voice drew my focus back to him. “I should be asking you that.” A smirk curved his lips, one too suspicious to ignore.

I struggled to find an answer. Nothing came. It wouldn’t be appropriate to explain anything in this moment, not with the air so stiff between us and his eyes fixed so intently on me. Holding my breath felt like the only way to steady myself.

“I was told you came by.” He gestured vaguely behind me, as though my apartment was just a step away. “Is there a problem?”

He adjusted his suit with ease, fingers brushing down the lapel. The movement was simple, almost casual, yet it carried quiet authority—as if the fabric was part of him, not clothing at all.

His voice sent a chill down my spine. My eyes lingered on the amber shade of his eyelids. How could someone be this tempting?

He could have sent someone else. But he came himself—just like that night.

“Yes, I wanted to see you about something,” I managed. The words were stiff, rehearsed formality, though I doubted they landed right.

“The best way to welcome guests here is to keep them standing at the entrance,” he remarked with sarcasm, followed by a short laugh.

Oh, s**t.

I smacked my hands together nervously, pressing my lips against my knuckles. “I’m so sorry.”

Panic surged. My laundry was still scattered, my dinner left cooking. Running back inside now would feel disrespectful.

“Can I see you at your residence instead?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

Why had I asked that? Nobody ever went to the top floor. And for what I needed to say, it sounded almost like a command.

Emily and I had only seen him once, the day we came to pay our lease—and that was at his office, not his residence.

“I will be expecting you,” he said, catching me off guard.

“Alright, give me—”

But he was already disappearing into the elevator.

Since morning, no one had given me time to finish my words. This time, I cared less.

I rushed inside to grab my dinner, but my appetite was gone. I left the food on the dining table, hoping I could eat later, and went straight to the mirror.

My lips were glossy, as they should be. Growing up, I had always hated when they were chapped and dry.

Then I headed toward the elevator, bound for his floor. I had never been there before. When we signed our lease, we had gone to his office an hour away. It had taken me time to realize he personally owned the top floor.

Whenever I’d seen him before, it was always a fleeting glimpse—a rigid back, a brief side profile, or silence guarded by men. I had only heard him speak three times: during the rent signing, that night, and now.

Each time left an imprint on me.

Emily often said he was always with escorts. Yet that night, he had been alone.

Maybe even he sometimes needed privacy.

When I stepped out of the elevator, guards lined the lobby. None of them stopped me; they only watched in silence.

As I approached, they stepped aside. The door swung open with a muted creak.

I crossed the threshold. The silence pressed against me, touched with the faint scent of leather and expensive cologne.

Wow.

The room was vast, the city lights glittering against the night. But it wasn’t the luxury that unsettled me—it was the silence, as though the space itself bent around him.

I caught sight of him from behind. He swirled a glass of Cristal, the golden bubbles rising in silence, just like him—effortless, untouchable. He moved with unhurried grace as he sank into the sofa.

My eyes strayed to a vase of flowers, their petals wilting.

“Have a seat,” he said.

I moved without hesitation and sat on one of the sofas, not far from him.

“You are here for what?” His voice was formal as he settled into his seat, the very picture of authority—as though he owned not just the view, but everything beyond it.

My mind went blank. The warmth in the room only made my body heat up further.

“Actually… my apartment will be due in a month. My roommate left suddenly.” I exhaled as he crossed one leg over the other, his gaze steady.

“I’m not capable of paying for it alone, so I need more… more time to find another place.”

His stare seared through me, leaving my body restless.

Embarrassment burned hot in my chest.

Finally, he took a slow sip of his wine before speaking, his voice heavy in the silence. “But you still love this place.”

Hope sparked inside me.

“Yes,” I admitted.

The sharp click of his glass against the ceramic table made me flinch.

He stood, his movements deliberate as he touched each flower in the room—peonies, lilies, roses—one by one.

“You’re a lover of flowers. What can you do to keep them alive?” His gaze pinning me to the sofa, making me drop my chin. “Then I will pay you twenty thousand dollars monthly.”

His words hit me like ice water.

He returned to his seat. “That should be enough to fix whatever you need.”

“Twenty…?” Just for flowers? My chest tightened. Becoming a florist had always been my dream. Flowers were the one thing I truly understood.

It felt like the tip of an iceberg. Twenty thousand.

“Yes, I can make them come alive again,” I said.

He placed a twenty dollar note on the table. “Resume next week.”

So fast.

A thousand questions rushed through me.

How did he know I loved flowers? Something in me twisted. Was this a test?

Billionaires didn’t throw away twenty thousand dollars on flowers. Not unless they wanted to measure you, to see if you’d snatch at the bait.

He didn’t even ask why I needed more time for rent. He only cared whether I could bring life back into what he owned.

But in that moment, the money mattered more than my dignity.

“Once they live, I will give you three hundred thousand,” he added.

I forced myself to breathe, my pulse hammering. If I took the money now, would I look cheap? If I refused, would I insult him? Either way, I was trapped.

That sum would be enough to take care of Pawila, cover rent, and even start something new.

I rose to inspect the flowers, moving carefully as though touching glass.

I knew I was capable. “Yes, I will do it.”

“When do you want to start?” he asked.

“Monday is okay,” I replied.

“Good. I will be expecting you.” He stretched the dollar bill toward me.

I could see him clearly now, his presence pressing against me without force. My heart thudded.

“I don’t need it now. Let me revive them first—then you can pay me,” I said.

He looked at me, and suddenly my chest tightened, my breath stuttered. I dropped my gaze and moved toward the door.

“It’s late already. I should go.”

He nodded.

But before I could leave, a sharp click echoed—the door opening.

“Richard.”

The voice sliced the tension.

A tall man with dark, olive-toned skin entered. He wasn’t as handsome as Richard, but the sheer masculinity in how he filled out his suit made it hard to look away.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” the man said smoothly.

“Not at all. You came at the right time,” Richard replied, though a hint of irritation edged his words. He stepped in front of me, blocking the stranger’s gaze.

The man smirked, circling him deliberately. “Dante Valerio.”

“Victoria Morgan,” I introduced myself.

I expected him to shake my hand, but instead he raised it and brushed his lips across my knuckles.

From anyone else, it would have been cheesy. But somehow, a thrill coursed through me. Maybe it was his accent—or maybe it was because I’d always had a soft spot for anything Italian.

“Dante.” Richard’s voice was smooth, but beneath it lay a razor-edged edge sharp enough to cut bone. “We are late already.”

“It was lovely to see you, Victoria. I’m sure we will meet again.” His words were directed at Richard, not me, his smirk holding a challenge.

I glanced at Richard. “Good night, Mr. Moore,” I said, my voice softer than I intended, almost teasing.

He gave no reply.

But his eyes stayed on me until I walked out, as though I had left behind a part of him that already belonged to me.