The CEO Who Hates Me

Jennie The crystal champagne flute trembles in my hand, condensation slicking my palm. Every bubble rising to the surface feels like a tiny, fizzing scream. I can't look at him. Not directly. But my entire being is oriented toward the far corner of the ballroom where Jace Sterling holds court. He's magnetic, a dark force in a bespoke suit that probably costs more than my annual salary. Investors and board members cluster around him, their faces rapt, their laughter a little too eager. "Deep breaths, Jennie," my colleague, Sarah, murmurs beside me, her own smile perfectly plastered on for the benefit of a passing executive. "You look like you're about to face a firing squad, not a canapé." I force a smile. "Just trying to remember the names of all the silver-spoon investors we're supposed to be charming tonight." I lie. She nods, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. I adjust the strap of my silk gown, trying to keep my breathing steady. As the Director of Real Estate Investments for the Sterling Group, I am supposed to be here to network, to discuss the upcoming Midtown development, and to act as if I don’t have a history with the man currently commanding the room. He glances up. His eyes, the color of winter storm clouds, lock onto mine. He doesn't look away. He doesn't offer a polite smile or a professional nod. He just stares, his gaze stripping away my poise until I feel exposed in the middle of a hundred influential socialites. The world narrows to just the two of us, connected by invisible threads of memory and regret. His expression remains impassive, but I know those gray eyes too well. There’s pain there beneath the professional mask. And something else, something that makes my breath catch. “Excuse me,” I murmur to Sarah, already moving away before she can respond. I need air. Anywhere but here, surrounded by wealth and success while feeling like the biggest failure in the room. The hallway leading to the restrooms is quieter, the music from the ballroom muffled by thick walls decorated with modern art. I lean against the cool wall, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths. “You’re avoiding me.” I jump at the sound of his voice, so close behind me. I didn’t hear him approach. “Jace.” I turn to face him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “I wasn’t.”A muscle feathers in his jaw. “Don’t lie to me, Jennie. Not after everything.” He steps closer, invading my personal space until the scent of his cologne, something warm and woodsy, wraps around me. My body betrays me, leaning in a fraction of an inch before I catch myself. His eyes drop to my lips, and the air between us crackles with enough electricity to power the entire building. He takes another step, and my back presses flush against the wall. There’s nowhere to go. The silk of my navy dress suddenly feels too thin, too revealing. His eyes darken, and for a moment I think I see something familiar in their depths, the same hunger that used to keep us up until dawn, exploring every inch of each other’s bodies. But it’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that careful, controlled hostility he’s perfected. “You want to know what this is?” he asks, one hand bracing against the wall beside my head, caging me in. His other hand comes up to my throat, not choking, just resting there, thumb stroking my pulse point. “This is me remembering what a mistake you were. And reminding myself why I don’t make them twice.” His thumb presses harder against my pulse, and I know he can feel it racing. He can feel exactly what he does to me, even after all this time. "Mistake?" The word scrapes my throat raw. "Is that what we were to you?" His gaze drops to my mouth again, and this time it lingers. "We were young. And foolish." His face leans closer, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. "And you were the biggest mistake of all." Before I can form a response, before I can even process the sting of his words, his mouth is on mine. It's not gentle. It's not romantic. It’s a punishment. That’s what this kiss is. A brutal, claiming punishment that tastes of champagne and resentment. His tongue forces its way into my mouth, and I don’t fight it. I can’t. Four years of starving for this exact moment, and I’m helpless. My hands fly to his chest, intending to push, but instead they clutch at the expensive fabric of his suit, pulling him closer. He groans into my mouth, a sound of frustration and hunger that goes straight to my core. His free hand slides from my waist to my hip, then lower, bunching the silk of my dress up until his fingers brush against the bare skin of my thigh. “Jace,” I gasp against his lips. “Please.” “Please what, Jennie?” he murmurs, his mouth moving to trace the sensitive skin behind my ear. “Please stop? Or please don’t ever stop?” I don’t have an answer. I just arch into him as his hand explores the curve of my thigh, his touch setting every nerve ending on fire. My leg hooks around his waist instinctively, drawing him flush against me. The hard ridge of his arousal presses against my center, and a whimper escapes my lips. Oh, I’ve missed this. He chuckles, a low, dangerous vibration against my neck. “Still so responsive.” His teeth scrape my pulse point, and my head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, offering him better access. “Some things don’t change.” His other hand slides from my throat down to my breast, thumb brushing against my n****e through the thin fabric of my dress and bra. I moan, arching into his touch, shamelessly seeking more friction, more contact, more of *him*. “Look at you,” he whispers, his lips trailing kisses along my jawline. “Four years, and you still fall apart so easily for me.” “It was always you,” I breathe out, the confession tearing itself from my chest. “It was never anyone else.” “Then why did you leave?” His movements stop abruptly. His hands still on my body, his mouth hovering over mine. The question hangs between us, heavy with unspoken history. “Don’t say ‘I had to.’ That’s not an answer.” I open my eyes to find his staring back at me, searching, demanding. The hatred is still there, but beneath it, something else flickers; vulnerability he can’t quite hide. “I can’t,” I whisper, the words tasting like ash. “Can’t or won’t?” His voice is dangerously soft, a blade wrapped in velvet. Before I can answer, he crashes his mouth against mine again, harder this time, punishing. His hands resume their exploration, one sliding around to grip my ass, lifting me slightly as my other leg wraps around his waist. The silk of my dress is bunched around my hips now, leaving me exposed in the dimly lit corridor. I’m lost in the sensation, in the way his body feels against mine, familiar yet new. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper. His lips trail down my neck, nipping and sucking in a way that will surely leave marks tomorrow. Marks I’ll treasure like holy relics. “Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against my collarbone. “Yes,” I breathe out. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, his chest heaving, his gray eyes dark with something that looks suspiciously like pain beneath the desire. “Then we have an arrangement.” I blink, trying to clear the haze of passion from my mind. “What?” “You want me. I want you.” His thumb traces my lower lip, sending shivers through my body. His grip on my thigh tightens almost painfully. “We can have that. No strings attached.” My blood runs cold. “What do you mean?” “I mean,” he says, his voice dropping to that predatory tone that once thrilled me and now terrifies me, “that I want to f**k you, Jennie. I want you in my bed. I want to hear you scream my name again. But that’s all I want.” Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not in front of him. Not now. “I don’t want your explanations or your excuses. I don’t want your promises or your declarations of love. I want your body, naked and willing beneath mine. Nothing more.” “You hate me,” I whisper, the realization hitting me with the force of a physical blow. “You want to punish me.” His lips curve into something that might be mistaken for a smile by someone who doesn’t know him. “Is it punishment if you enjoy it?” He leans in, his mouth so close to mine that I can almost taste him again. “You can have me again, Jennie. But only on my terms. Only when I want. And only for what I’m willing to give you.” A bitter laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it. “You think that’s all I want from you? Just s*x?” My hands slide from his shoulders to push weakly against his chest. “You think after everything we had, I’d settle for being your convenient f**k toy?” His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t release me. “You left without a word, Jennie. You don’t get to dictate the terms of your return.” “I came back because I love you!” The confession tears from my throat, raw and ragged. “I want all of you, not just your body.” He flinches, almost imperceptibly, but I see it. “Love? You don’t get to say that word to me. Not anymore.” “Then why are you doing this?” I demand, my anger warring with the desperate wanting that still courses through my veins. “If you hate me so much, if you feel nothing for me, why do you want me in your bed?” For a moment, I see something raw and unguarded in his expression, a flicker of the pain he tries so hard to hide. Then it’s gone, replaced by that cold, calculating mask. “Because I can,” he says simply. “Because you’re here, looking like this, smelling like this. And because I remember exactly what you feel like beneath me.” My heart stutters at that, at the brutal honesty in his words. “So this is about ego? About proving you can still have me whenever you want?” His grip on my thigh loosens, and he lowers my legs slowly to the floor, but he doesn’t step back. His hands remain on my waist, a possessive, branding heat through the silk of my dress. “I don’t need to prove anything.” His thumb traces circles on my hipbone, a maddening, distracting motion. “This is simple, Jennie. You want me. I want you. Let’s not complicate it with feelings and histories that are better left buried.” “Burying them didn’t work four years ago,” I shoot back, my voice shaky but determined. “It won’t work now.” His jaw clenches. “That was your choice, not mine.” Tears I’ve been fighting back finally spill over. He watches me cry, and for a terrifying second, I think I see something like regret in his eyes. It vanishes instantly, replaced by a hardened resolve. “Don’t,” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “Don’t you dare cry. Not after what you did.” “I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words tasting like acid. “I never meant to hurt you.” “But you did,” he replies, stepping back finally, creating a sliver of space between us. The sudden absence of his body heat leaves me chilled, exposed. “And now you have a choice, Jennie.” I straighten my dress, my hands trembling as I smooth the wrinkled silk. “What choice?” “You can walk away from this corridor, return to the party and pretend this never happened. We’ll continue our professional relationship. Nothing more.” He pauses, letting the emptiness of that future settle over me. It’s a hollow, gray existence compared to the vibrant, messy reality of being close to him again. “Or,” he continues, taking a step back toward me, closing that agonizing inch of space he’d created, “you can take what I’m offering. No expectations. No promises. Just us, stripped down to what we do best.” My mind races, calculating the risks, the potential for more heartbreak. Four years ago, I left because I had to. I told myself it was for the best, for both of us. But lying in bed at night in Chicago, staring at ceiling I couldn’t see in the dark, I’d replay our last conversations, our last touches, our last kisses until the memories became so painful I had to force myself to stop. Now he’s offering me a piece of that back. A piece of him. Even if it’s just the physical, even if it’s wrapped in bitterness and conditions, it’s more than I’ve had for four long years. “Tell me what you want, Jennie,” he murmurs, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush against my cheek, and I lean into the touch like a starving animal. Pathetic, I know, but I can't help it. Four years without this touch has left me weak, desperate. "I want you," I whisper, the admission tearing me apart even as I make it. "All of you." "That's not on offer," he says, his voice flat, final. He withdraws his hand as if touching me burns him. "It's my way or no way." The tears have stopped, leaving my face tight and cold. I think of the lonely nights, the empty arms, the hollow space in my chest where my heart used to beat for him. I think of walking past him in the hallways these past three months, maintaining a professional distance while screaming inside. I think of the possibility of continuing like that indefinitely. "Okay," I hear myself say, the word small but clear in the empty corridor. "I'll take it." Something shifts in his expression—triumph? Surprise? It's there and gone so quickly I can't be sure I really saw it. "Okay," he repeats, testing the word. "Then we have an agreement." His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he checks it briefly, the spell between us broken. “I have to get back,” he says, slipping the phone back into his pocket. The professional mask is firmly back in place, as if the last ten minutes never happened. As if I’m not still trembling against the wall, my dress still bunched around my thighs. As if my entire world hasn’t just been rearranged again by this man. “You should fix yourself,” he adds, with a slight nod toward my disheveled appearance. “You wouldn’t want anyone to see you like this. Rumors and all.” The cruelty of the comment stings more than anything else he’s said tonight. Because it’s so deliberate. So calculated to remind me of my place. Not the place of a lover he just kissed senseless in a dark corridor, but of an employee who needs to maintain appearances. I watch him walk away, his shoulders straight, his stride confident as he returns to the ballroom where investors and executives await him. He doesn’t look back. Slowly, I push myself away from the wall, my legs shaky. I smooth my dress, finger-comb my hair, wipe away the remaining traces of tears and passion from my face. I pull out a small mirror from my clutch and check my reflection. My lipstick is gone, my cheeks are flushed, my eyes are too bright.