The CEO Who Should Not Want Me

Unnerved

(Ivanna POV)

The morning felt heavier than usual, as if the air itself sensed the weight of last night. I stepped out of the elevator and walked into the main floor of Kovaar Global, clutching my tablet a little too tightly. Sleep had avoided me, leaving my thoughts restless and tangled. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Arin in that dim conference room. The glow of the city on his shoulders. The quiet focus in his eyes. The way tension settled in the room like a secret.

And the way I said his name.

I had no idea what possessed me to whisper it like that. Soft. Unguarded. Personal.

It replayed in my head all morning.

Good night, Arin.

A part of me hoped he forgot it already. A larger part feared he had not.

As I approached my desk, Gwen lifted her head and assessed me with her usual detective like perception. She had a talent for reading people too quickly.

“You look… unsettled,” she said, eyes narrowing.

“Did not sleep well,” I replied, turning on my monitor.

“Work stuff or general life chaos.”

“Both.”

Gwen leaned back in her chair. “Well, brace yourself. He is already on the floor.”

My heart stumbled. “He.”

“Your favorite complication,” she whispered.

I shot her a warning look, but she only smirked and returned to her emails.

I swallowed the unease slowly rising in my chest. I should not feel anything. Not attraction. Not nervousness. Not interest. This was supposed to be a mission. A job. A role chosen for a purpose I could not afford to fail. I was here to gather information. To extract answers no one else had been able to reach. Not to feel anything for the man who controlled this entire tower.

And definitely not to whisper his name like a confession.

Before I could open any files, a message popped up on my screen.

Arin Kovaar has assigned you a new project.

My stomach sank.

I clicked the notification. A detailed outline opened. Technical tasks. Workflow timelines. Problem points scattered like landmines. It was an insane project. Messy. Disorganized. A full process rebuild that should take an entire team, not one new hire still learning the hallways.

This was not a task. It was a test.

Gwen leaned toward me, reading the screen. “That is not a project. That is a threat.”

“It is doable,” I whispered, though even I did not believe it.

“Not by one person. Not in the timeframe he gave.”

My pulse quickened. He wanted to see if I would break. If I had limits. If I would fold the moment pressure tightened its grip.

Or maybe he wanted to distract himself.

From what.

From who.

I took a slow breath and straightened in my seat. “I will manage.”

Gwen’s expression softened. “You do not have to impress him. He does not get to decide your worth.”

But he already had. And I hated that I let him.

I looked at the project again and whispered, “I can do it.”

Gwen nodded and returned to her work. I opened the first file, hiding the tremor in my hands.

I had no choice. I had to be perfect.

Failure was not allowed. Not for the mission. Not for my safety. Not for the secret I carried.

Not for the truth buried in the gap he would eventually notice.

I needed to finish this project. I needed to prove myself. And I needed to stay invisible at the same time.

A contradiction. A trap. A knife with two edges.

But I had walked sharper paths than this.

I began to work.

***

The morning passed in a blur. I barely moved from my desk, barely looked up except to refill my water or steal a glance at the corridors in case he passed by. My fingers typed field notes, reorganized outdated systems, and marked inconsistencies. The deeper I went into the project, the clearer it became.

This was not just a test. It was a challenge designed to see if I would crumble or climb.

Around midday, a shadow fell across my desk.

I froze.

Arin stood quietly beside me, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. He did not look tired despite staying late last night. If anything, he looked more composed. More controlled. As if nothing had happened in that dim conference room. As if he had not stared at me with a tension I still felt in my skin.

“Walk with me,” he said.

Not a question.

I rose quickly and followed him through the floor, through a hallway, and into a small side meeting room. He closed the glass door behind us. The click felt too loud.

He turned to me. “You received the project.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think.”

“It is complex, but manageable.”

“You think you can handle it.”

“I will handle it.”

His eyes searched my face, studying the flicker of determination I pushed to the surface. For a moment, neither of us spoke. He seemed to be evaluating something beneath the words. Something beneath my skin. As if he could see the hidden layers I worked so hard to bury.

“Good,” he said softly. “I want to see how you approach challenges.”

“I thought my audit notes already showed that.”

A slight surprise flashed in his eyes. Then approval. “Careful,” he said. “Confidence can be dangerous.”

“Only when misplaced.”

He held my gaze. The silence between us stretched again, not empty but charged. Thick. Pulled tight like a string neither of us could let go of.

I shifted lightly, trying to break the spell. “Is there a specific direction you want for the project.”

“No. I want to see what you create without influence.” His voice dropped slightly. “I want your mind without interference.”

The words struck deeper than he intended.

I forced a steady breath. “Then I will deliver it.”

“I expect nothing less.”

For a moment, he did not move. Neither did I. There was something almost dangerous in the way he watched me. Not possessive. Not aggressive. But something close to curiosity. Something close to temptation.

Then he blinked slowly, stepped back, and opened the door.

“You can return to work,” he said.

I walked past him, feeling the heat of his attention on my back.

***

By late afternoon, my head throbbed, and my fingers ached. The project demanded constant focus. Multiple departments. Cross referencing. Database cleaning. Research into old files archived years ago. Systems that barely communicated with one another. It was a puzzle missing half its pieces.

Every few hours, I felt eyes on me. I did not need to look up to know whose they were.

Arin walked through the floor often. More often than usual. His presence always shifted the air. Always drew glances from staff. Always made the room straighten itself.

But he looked at me each time he passed.

Short glances. Controlled ones. But noticeable.

It made my heart beat faster every time.

Around five, Gwen cleared her throat. “Sip this,” she said, sliding a small cup of coffee toward me. “You look ready to pass out.”

“Thank you.”

Before I could take a sip, a notification blinked on my screen.

Anonymous message: Stop digging.

A chill crawled beneath my skin.

Another message.

You think he will protect you. You think he will trust you. He will not.

My breath hitched. My fingers tightened on the cup.

Gwen noticed instantly. “What happened.”

“Nothing,” I whispered quickly, closing the window. “Spam.”

But it was not. It was never spam.

My pulse pounded. My throat felt tight.

Not now. Not again.

Not while he was already suspicious.

I forced my breathing to steady and returned to my work.

Focus. Do not slip. Do not draw attention. Do not c***k.

***

The office finally began to empty at seven. Gwen gathered her things. “Come on. You need to go home.”

“I will stay. Just a little longer.”

Gwen frowned. “Ivanna. You worked like a machine. Enough for one day.”

“I am fine.”

“You are lying. But fine. Text me when you leave.”

She walked out reluctantly.

The moment she left, silence settled across the floor. A calm silence. But not peaceful. More like the quiet before a storm.

I continued typing, driven by something deeper than ambition. Driven by fear. By necessity. By the understanding that if I failed this project, everything else would unravel.

Ten minutes passed before I heard footsteps behind me.

I looked up slowly.

Arin stood a few feet away, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The quiet lighting cast soft shadows across his face. He looked tired. Human. Sharper than usual but somehow more vulnerable.

“You are still here,” he said.

“So are you.”

He approached my desk. “How far along are you.”

“Thirty percent.”

“Already.”

“I work fast.”

His gaze dipped briefly to my hands. They trembled slightly from exhaustion, and I curled them under the desk. His eyes flicked back to mine with quiet concern he tried to hide.

“You should rest,” he said.

“So should you.”

“I can handle it.”

“So can I.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. A rare expression. A dangerous one.

“You are stubborn,” he said quietly.

“Or determined.”

“That too.”

He stepped closer. Too close. My heartbeat echoed in my ears.

“Let me see your progress.”

I turned the monitor toward him. He leaned down to scan the work, his shoulder brushing mine lightly. The contact was accidental, but my breath still caught. He froze for half a second, as if he felt it too.

Then he straightened.

“This is impressive,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“You exceeded my expectations.”

I swallowed. “I intend to.”

The tension between us deepened. Thickened.

A moment stretched. Neither of us moved.

Then he said it. Soft. Controlled.

“You do not have to prove anything to me.”

“Yes I do.”

His jaw tightened. “Why.”

Because you are the man I was sent to expose.

Because someone wants your empire destroyed.

Because I am a threat you do not see coming.

Because falling for you would ruin everything.

I forced a steady breath. “Because I want to do well here.”

He studied me with an unnervingly careful expression, as if he could sense every unspoken truth.

“You already are,” he said.

He turned slightly, but not before I saw the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes. Something I should not see. Something I should not respond to.

“We should both go home,” he said at last.

“Yes. After I finish this section.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Do not stay too late.”

When he walked away, the air felt too empty. Too quiet.

I looked at the screen, but the words blurred.

My pulse had not slowed.

My secrets had not faded.

And the line I was supposed to never cross was no longer a line.

It was a thread.

A fragile, breakable thread.

A thread that had just pulled tighter.