Obsessed

Chapter Four – The Move

( Dominic pov )

Power has its own kind of silence.

It isn’t the absence of sound it’s the authority to decide which sounds are allowed to exist. The hum of the city far below, the muted thrum of elevators, the controlled murmur of voices behind glass walls all bent to that rule. From the top floor of Valen Tower, the world obeyed.

Rain washed over New York City in thin, disciplined streaks, blurring the skyline into silver veins. Streets that were chaotic by nature appeared almost graceful from this height. Traffic became patterns. People became movements. Disorder softened into geometry.

I liked that illusion.

Distance made everything manageable. Even storms. I stood with my hands clasped behind my back, eyes fixed on the city as though it were a board I had already mastered. Valen Tower reflected nothing back at me except faint outlines, a deliberate architectural choice. You didn’t build mirrors into places meant for command.

“Valen Group correspondence sent, sir.”

Victor’s voice cut through the quiet, steady and precise. He remained just inside the doorway, close enough to speak, far enough not to intrude. He had learned the balance long ago.

I didn’t turn.

“Did she open it?”

“Yes,” he said after a brief glance at the tablet in his hand. “Within three minutes of receipt. She closed it. Reopened it. Then printed the attachment.” That detail mattered more than he knew. Printing meant weight. Permanence. People only printed what they intended to revisit what they didn’t trust to disappear into a digital void.

A subtle shift passed through me, something loosening, something aligning. The corner of my mouth lifted before I could restrain it. “Good,” I said quietly. “That means she’s curious.” Curiosity was the hinge of fate. Fear sent people running. Desire made them careless. Pride made them predictable. But curiosity… curiosity rooted people in place. It made them linger at thresholds they should cross quickly or abandon entirely.

Curiosity demanded answers.

I moved toward the desk, the polished floor silent beneath my shoes. A single folder waited there, placed with careful intention. Matte black. No logo. No unnecessary markings.

Only a name.

Selena Ward.

The letters were neat, understated like her. The name looked fragile against the dark surface, as though it didn’t belong in a room built on power and restraint. I opened it. Inside lay fragments of a life I had not been invited into, but had accessed all the same. Academic records. Freelance contracts. Design portfolios marked with restrained creativity and quiet confidence. Notes about her habits, how she worked late into the night, how she favored precision over excess, how she turned down projects that compromised her values even when she needed the money.

Her apartment address sat there too. Modest. Clean. Temporary, as though she never planned to stay anywhere long enough to grow roots. I hadn’t ordered surveillance. I hadn’t breached walls.

This wasn’t intrusion.

It was preparation.

People often misunderstood the nature of attention. They thought being watched meant being desired. They were wrong.

Desire distracted. Attention assessed. Interest faded. It burned bright, then dimmed. Curiosity sharpened. “She’ll assume the offer is a coincidence,” Victor said, his tone neutral. “That’s exactly what she should assume,” I replied. “Coincidence is the most convincing lie we tell ourselves.” He nodded once. He never challenged statements like that. Men who survived near me understood that power didn’t need validation.

I closed the folder slowly, fingers resting on the cover longer than necessary. My reflection hovered faintly in the glass of the desk composed, immaculate, distant.

Perfect.

Yet beneath the surface, something restless shifted. Selena hadn’t done anything extraordinary. She hadn’t flattered me. Hadn’t angled for advantage. Hadn’t tried to insert herself into my world the way so many others had attempted. She’d simply walked away. And that was what unsettled me. People didn’t walk away from power. They circled it. Tested it. Tried to attach themselves to it.

She hadn’t.

Since that night, I’d followed her movements with a focus that bordered on discipline. Not an obsession yet. Observation. Pattern recognition. I told myself it was professional. That she represented an anomaly I needed to understand. But anomalies had a way of becoming fractures. The folder snapped shut beneath my palm. “Tomorrow,” I said. “Six p.m.”

Victor straightened slightly. “Understood.”

“Ensure the environment is controlled,” I continued. “Neutral lighting. No pressure points. I don’t want her to feel cornered.” A flicker of surprise crossed his face subtle, but present. “You’re considering her comfort.” “I’m considering her perception,” I corrected calmly. “If she feels hunted, she’ll resist. If she feels chosen, she’ll engage.”

The difference was critical.

Victor hesitated. “And after the interview?” I adjusted my cufflink, the metal cool and grounding against my skin. “After,” I said, voice even, “we’ll decide if she’s worth keeping.” The words sounded clinical. Detached. The way decisions were meant to sound. But the truth pressed in quietly, unwelcome and undeniable.

I had already decided.

Victor inclined his head and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click that restored the silence I favored. The room settled. My phone vibrated on the desk offshore numbers, transactions in motion, problems demanding attention. I glanced at the screen, then turned it face down.

Business could wait.

This wasn’t business.

I leaned against the glass wall, watching rain streak downward, each drop merging with another, paths crossing and separating without permission. The city blurred further, softened by motion and distance. Control has always been my foundation. I built Valen Group on it. Maintained alliances through it. Ruled my world by knowing exactly where every piece belonged. Yet lately, control felt less like strength and more like confinement.

A structure so precise it left no room to breathe. And within that structure, her name echoed quietly, persistently like a question I hadn’t planned to ask.

Selena.

The first c***k in a wall I had believed unbreakable.

And cracks, once formed, never truly closed.