Chains of Desire

chapter 4 curiosity

Isla pov

The fluorescent lights above hummed softly, blending with the clattering of keyboards and the muted sound of telephones ringing in the distance. My desk was buried in color-coded files and printouts, evidence of the workload I had been swamped with since morning. I tapped the end of my pen against the side of my notebook, staring at the half-written presentation that had been glaring back at me for an hour.

Being a project coordinator in one of the city’s most reputable marketing firms wasn’t glamorous, but it kept me busy and gave me something that felt like purpose. At twenty-three, I was still carving my path. My parents were wealthy enough to make life comfortable, but they didn’t hand-feed me. And honestly, I wanted to build something of my own. Still, at that moment, with the never-ending list of tasks in front of me, I felt more exhausted than accomplished.

The glass door of my office burst open without warning. Only one person had that much energy at 10 a.m.—Maya.

“Isssslaaa!” she sing-songed, dragging out my name as she slipped in dramatically, a latte in one hand and her phone clutched in the other. Her hair bounced around her shoulders, glossy and perfectly curled. “You will not believe what I just found out.”

I groaned, pushing my chair back a little. “If it’s about your new mascara lasting longer than your last relationship, I don’t want to hear it.”

She gasped, clutching her chest like I had stabbed her. “Rude! But no. This is bigger. Like, galaxy-shaking big.”

I arched an eyebrow at her. “Go on.”

She practically threw herself onto the couch across from my desk, kicking her heels off. “Okay, so, you know the annual Winter Gala at the Marlowe Hotel?”

I nodded vaguely. Every December, the elite of the city gathered for that event—business tycoons, socialites, politicians. It was a place where money dripped from the chandeliers and power conversations floated in the air like perfume. My parents had gone a few times, but it wasn’t exactly my scene.

“Well,” Maya continued, her eyes wide with excitement, “Alexander Kingston is going to be there this year.”

The pen in my hand slipped, leaving a dark streak across my notes. My chest tightened, heat rushing to my cheeks before I could stop it.

Alexander Kingston.

The name was everywhere—magazines, business journals, whispered conversations. At twenty-five, he wasn’t just rich. He was the richest. The youngest self-made billionaire, the ruthless CEO of Kingston Corporation. A man whose face was practically a brand on its own: sharp jawline, stormy gray eyes, an aura that could silence an entire boardroom.

I swallowed hard, trying to play it cool. “And… why should I care?”

Maya narrowed her eyes at me, grinning like a cat who had caught a mouse. “Oh, don’t even start. Every woman in this city cares. Half of them fantasize about breathing the same air as him. Don’t act like you’re immune.”

I leaned back in my chair, avoiding her gaze. Immune? I had literally seen him that morning. That impossible, surreal moment on the street when I looked up from my phone and caught sight of him across the road. For a split second, our eyes had met—or at least, I thought they had. Then his car had whisked him away, leaving me rooted to the sidewalk with my heart pounding in my ears.

And now here was Maya, talking about him like the universe was playing some twisted joke.

I forced a laugh. “He’s just a man. A man with too much money and probably zero personality.”

“Ha!” Maya shot up, wagging her phone in my face. “Say that again after you read this.” She shoved an article at me, the bold headline glowing on her screen: Alexander Kingston: The Billionaire Who Redefines Power at 25.

I tried not to look, but the photo attached dragged my eyes in. He was in a black tailored suit, one hand in his pocket, standing in front of a private jet like he owned the world—which, technically, he did. His expression was unreadable, lips pressed in a firm line, eyes cold and calculating.

I quickly pushed her phone back. “He looks… serious.”

Maya smirked knowingly. “Serious? Girl, he looks like sin in Armani. And don’t you dare deny it—you’re blushing.”

I turned back to my desk, pretending to shuffle papers. “I am not.”

But I was. I could feel the heat in my cheeks, the way my chest tightened at the mere mention of him.

When Maya finally left to “spread the gospel of Alexander” around the office, I sat in silence, my pen frozen above my notebook. My thoughts betrayed me, circling back to him.

Who was he, really? Beyond the headlines and the intimidating presence? Did he even remember faces in the crowd—or was I nothing more than another nameless passerby?

I sighed, pulling my laptop closer. Curiosity had its claws in me, and fighting it felt useless. My fingers hesitated for only a second before typing his name into the search bar.

Page after page filled the screen—news articles, interviews, photographs. Stories of how he had built his empire from nothing, how competitors feared him, how women chased him like moths to a flame.

The more I read, the more I felt it: the dangerous tug of fascination. I was already in too deep.

I bit my lip, whispering to myself, “What am I even doing?”

But late that night, when the office was empty and the city lights shimmered outside the window, I was still scrolling. Still staring at those cold gray eyes. Still imagining what it might feel like if they ever looked at me again.

And deep down, I knew—I wasn’t going to stop.