His Ruthless Obsession

Dangerous Invitation

The board meeting feels like it’s never going to end. Two hours of people arguing about centerpieces and caterers, while all I can hear in my head is Adrian’s voice from this morning. The suspicion in it. That way he stared at me like I was a question he couldn’t answer.

“Elena?”

I blink. Mrs. Henderson is staring at me like she’s been waiting. My heart jumps.

“The seating arrangements?” she repeats, slower this time.

“Uh, sorry. What about them?” My cheeks heat.

“The VIP tables. You were going to coordinate with Blackwood Industries about their preferences.”

And just like that, my stomach drops. Damian’s company. Because of course it has to be his company.

“Yes. Absolutely,” I say quickly. “I’ll… I’ll reach out to them today.”

She nods, satisfied. “Good. We need everything finalized soon. Two weeks.”

Two weeks. Two weeks of dealing with Damian. Phone calls. Emails. Probably face-to-face meetings. Two weeks of pretending my chest doesn’t tighten every time his name comes up.

After the meeting I just sit in my car with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen. I need to make the call. It’s business. No one can question that. Not Adrian. Not anyone.

Still, my hand shakes when I finally dial.

“Damian Blackwood’s office,” a woman answers, sharp and professional.

Relief washes over me. “Hi, this is Elena Moretti from the Henderson Foundation. I just need to speak with someone from Mr. Blackwood’s team about the gala seating.”

“One moment, please.”

Classical hold music. My throat is dry. This is fine. This is safe. This is,

“Elena.”

His voice. Deep, smooth, and suddenly I feel like my whole body is too hot.

“Mr. Blackwood,” I manage. “I was hoping to speak with someone from your team.”

“You’re speaking to me. What do you need?”

Of course. Of course he wouldn’t let me escape.

“The gala,” I say, forcing the words out. “We need to finalize your company’s table preferences.”

“Then let’s meet. Dinner. Tonight.”

My stomach clenches. “I don’t think that’s necessary. We can do this over the phone.”

“Can we?” There’s a little curl of amusement in his voice. “Because I have requirements that might need… explanation.”

God. The way he says “explanation.” My pulse skitters.

“This doesn’t need to be in person,” I try again, weak.

“Elena. This is business. Surely your husband wouldn’t object to a business dinner with a donor.”

And he’s right. Adrian would expect me to handle it. Cancelling would raise more questions than going.

“Where did you have in mind?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

“Chez Laurent. Private room. Eight o’clock.”

I almost laugh. Of course it’s Chez Laurent. The most private, most expensive restaurant in the city.

“That’s a bit much for seating charts.”

“Is it? I’m donating half a million dollars. I think I deserve a little attention.”

Half a million. My head spins.

“That’s… generous,” I say, though my voice shakes.

“I can be generous when I’m motivated,” he murmurs. And I know exactly what he means.

I hang up, already regretting it. And immediately my phone rings again. Adrian.

“Hi.”

“Elena, I need you at the Morrison Industries cocktail party with me tonight. Seven-thirty.”

I close my eyes. “Tonight? Adrian, I,”

“Cancel whatever you’re doing.”

“I can’t. It’s with Damian Blackwood. For the gala. He’s donating half a million.”

Silence. Long and sharp. Then: “Blackwood is donating?”

“Yes. We need to finalize his table.”

“And that requires dinner?”

His voice cuts like a blade.

“He’s a major donor, Adrian. These dinners… they’re part of the job.”

“I’m sure they are,” he says, cold as ice. “Fine. Handle your business. But Elena?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful. Blackwood has a reputation with married women.”

A chill goes through me. I don’t know if he’s guessing or if he actually knows something.

“It’s a business dinner,” I say.

“Of course it is.” He hangs up.

By the time I’m standing outside Chez Laurent, I’m a wreck. My black dress is supposed to be professional. It’s not. Not when I catch my reflection in the glass doors. It hugs me in all the wrong places for “business.”

“Mrs. Moretti,” the maître d’ greets politely. “Mr. Blackwood is waiting in the Bordeaux room.”

Private. Soundproof. My throat tightens.

He’s standing by the window when I walk in, city lights behind him. And when he turns, I feel that same hit I always do. Like oxygen leaving the room.

“You came,” he says.

“It’s business,” I answer, clinging to that word.

“Is it?” His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate. “You look beautiful.”

“Damian, the gala,”

“Do we really need to talk about seating? Or did you just want to see me?”

“This was your idea.”

“And you said yes. Why?”

“Because you’re donating,”

“Bullshit.”

I flinch.

“Elena,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “You said yes because you wanted to. Because you can’t stay away.”

My hands tremble, and he notices. Of course he notices.

“Why are you shaking?” he murmurs. “Why won’t you look me in the eye? Why wear that dress if not to drive me crazy?”

“This is professional,” I say, even though it sounds hollow.

“This is temptation disguised as professional. And it’s working.”

His hand brushes mine, and the spark shoots up my arm.

“Elena. Look at me.”

I do, and the heat in his eyes almost knocks me backwards.

“I want you. I’ve wanted you since day one. And I think you want me too.”

“I’m married.”

“To a man who doesn’t see you,” he shoots back. “I see it. The loneliness. The way you light up when someone actually listens.”

“Stop,” I whisper, but I don’t pull away when his thumb strokes across my hand.

“Have dinner with me. Not for the foundation. Not for business. Just because you want to.”

And against every ounce of better judgment, I hear myself whisper, “Okay.”

His smile is slow, knowing.

We sit. We talk. About the gala. About auction items. About catering. All of it just noise beneath the electricity buzzing between us. Every brush of fingers, every glance across the table, makes my chest tighter.

At one point he says, “Adrian must be proud of you.”

I laugh. It sounds bitter. “Adrian thinks it’s a good way for wives to stay busy.”

“And you?”

“I think it’s the only thing keeping me from disappearing.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

His face softens. “Elena,”

“I should go.” I stand too quickly.

“Was this a mistake?” he asks, moving closer. “Because you don’t look like a woman who wants to leave.”

“I’m married,” I whisper again, but the words have no weight anymore.

“So you keep reminding me.” His voice drops, his eyes on mine. “When was the last time your husband treated you like a partner instead of a prop?”

My throat closes. Because I don’t have an answer.

“I need to leave,” I breathe.

“Or you can stay,” he says softly, cupping my face. “And let me show you what it’s like to actually be seen.”

And just like that, my resolve crumbles.

“Okay,” I whisper.

This time, when our hands brush, I don’t pull away.

And for the first time, I admit what I’ve been fighting all along: I want him.

And he wants me.

And something tells me neither of us is going to stop pretending much longer.