Jacob shot up from the sofa, his finger trembling as he pointed at Bridget's neck.

"Where the hell were you last night?" he yelled, his voice cracking with rage.

Bridget let out a harsh, dry laugh. The sound scraped against her throat. "Are you seriously asking me that? Do you think you're the only one allowed to screw around in other people's beds?"

Jacob choked on his next breath. His face flushed a dark, angry purple. "You did this to get back at me! You threw away three years of our relationship because of one mistake!"

Bridget felt a surge of pure disgust. She didn't waste another breath on him. She marched straight past him into the bedroom, dragging her large suitcase from the closet. She started throwing her clothes inside, not caring if they wrinkled.

Jacob lunged forward, grabbing the handle of the suitcase. "You're not leaving!"

Bridget's blood ran cold. She grabbed the heavy ceramic lamp from the nightstand and smashed it against the wooden doorframe. The ceramic shattered with a deafening crack, sending sharp shards flying across the floor.

Jacob jumped back, his eyes wide with fear.

Bridget zipped up the suitcase, her hands shaking with adrenaline. She dragged it to the front door. She dug her apartment keys out of her purse and threw them as hard as she could. The metal keys hit Jacob directly in the chest.

"We are done," she spat, slamming the door behind her.

Out on the street, the adrenaline finally crashed. A sharp, pulling ache radiated through her lower abdomen. Her legs felt weak, The reckless physical exertion of last night had taken a severe toll on her body.

She dragged her suitcase to a nearby storage locker, then hailed another cab to a discreet private clinic in Manhattan.

The doctor in the emergency gynecology department examined her quickly. She handed Bridget a prescription for anti-inflammatory pills and a small tube of soothing ointment.

"No strenuous physical activity for the next few days," the doctor warned sternly.

Bridget's face burned with intense heat. She shoved the tube of ointment into the very bottom of her tote bag, burying it under her planner and makeup bag. She glanced at her watch and her stomach dropped. She was going to be late for work.

She sprinted the last two blocks to the massive glass-and-steel high-rise that housed her company. Her lungs burned as she pushed through the revolving doors into the grand, high-ceilinged lobby.

The moment she stepped inside, the atmosphere felt wrong. The lobby was dead silent. Every single employee was standing rigidly against the walls, their heads bowed, not daring to make a sound.

Bridget was too panicked about being late to notice. She kept running forward. Her broken heel caught on the polished marble floor. Her ankle twisted violently, and she pitched forward, bracing herself for the painful impact.

The impact never came.

A large, warm hand clamped around her wrist like a steel vice. The grip was strong enough to bruise. Bridget gasped, her body jerking to a halt. The sleeve of a custom suit brushed against her arm, and the cold metal of a Patek Philippe watch pressed into her skin.

She followed the arm up and collided with a pair of pitch-black, bottomless eyes.

Bridget's lungs stopped working. The blood drained entirely from her face, leaving her dizzy. It was him. The man from the lounge. The man who had left the black card.

"Watch where you're going!" A slightly angry voice rang out.

Bridget flinched. Standing right behind the man was Alex, the terrifying executive assistant to the CEO. Alex was glaring at her. "You are disrupting the CEO's inspection!"

CEO?

The word hit Bridget like a physical blow to the stomach. Her knees buckled. She had slept with Jevon Rocha. The highest authority in the company. The man who held her entire career in his hands.

Jevon's gaze swept over her pale, terrified face and her trembling legs. A dark, dangerous light flickered in his eyes. He didn't even look at Alex. He simply tightened his grip on Bridget's wrist and pulled her flush against his side.

"This employee looks severely ill," Jevon announced, his voice echoing coldly through the silent lobby. "She requires immediate medical assistance."

"Mr. Rocha, I'm fine, really-" Bridget stammered, trying to pull her arm away.

Jevon's hand slid from her wrist to her waist, his fingers digging into her side with an undeniable, possessive force. He practically dragged her toward the private executive elevator at the end of the hall.

The heavy metal doors slid shut, cutting off the shocked stares of the entire lobby.

The enclosed space instantly filled with the heavy scent of cedarwood. Bridget pressed her back flat against the cold metal wall, her chest heaving.

"Mr. Rocha, I am so sorry about last night," she babbled, her voice shaking uncontrollably. "I was drunk. I didn't know who you were."

Jevon stepped closer. He placed one hand flat against the wall right beside her head, trapping her. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"Why did you run?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

The sheer pressure of his presence made Bridget dizzy. She shrank back, her tote bag tilting precariously on her shoulder.

The zipper had been left open. The small tube of private ointment slipped out, bouncing off her shoe and rolling to a stop right between Jevon's polished leather shoes.

The elevator stopped at the top floor.

Jevon looked down. He read the medical label on the tube. His Adam's apple bobbed violently, and the air in the elevator seemed to freeze.

He bent down, picked up the tube, and wrapped his long fingers around it. Without a single word, he grabbed Bridget's wrist again and hauled her out of the elevator.

He dragged her down the empty hallway, shoved her into his private executive lounge, and slammed the heavy wooden door shut, The lock clicked with a loud.

The sound of the lock echoing in the massive room made Bridget flinch. She pressed her spine against the solid wood of the door, her fingers digging into the fabric of her trench coat.

Jevon tossed the small tube of ointment onto the expensive leather sofa. He slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket, his dark eyes fixed on her like a predator watching a cornered rabbit. He took a slow step forward.

"Mr. Rocha, please," Bridget begged, her voice trembling so hard she could barely form the words. "I just walked into the wrong area last night. I swear I won't tell anyone. Please don't fire me."

Jevon let out a harsh, humorless laugh. He closed the distance between them in two long strides. He reached out, his thumb and forefinger gripping her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes.

"Why did you throw the card away?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

Bridget bit her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. "I'm not a prostitute. You can't just buy me off after a mistake."

The muscle in Jevon's jaw ticked violently. His thumb dragged heavily across her swollen lower lip. "A mistake?"

Before Bridget could process his tone, Jevon bent down and scooped her into his arms.

Bridget let out a muffled shriek, kicking her legs. She pushed against his solid chest, absolute terror gripping her heart. She thought he was going to force her into some twisted workplace submission.

He carried her to the back of the lounge and dropped her onto a wide, velvet-covered bed.

"Lay on your stomach. Don't move," Jevon ordered, his voice leaving absolutely no room for argument.

Bridget froze, her body rigid with fear. She rolled onto her stomach, burying her burning face in the pillows.

She heard the rustle of fabric. Then, she felt the zipper of her skirt being slowly, deliberately pulled down.

"No, stop!" she gasped, trying to push herself up.

A heavy, warm palm pressed flat against the small of her back, pinning her to the mattress. The heat from his skin burned through her thin blouse. She lost all her strength, her body going completely limp under his commanding touch.

She heard the faint pop of the ointment cap. A second later, a dollop of freezing cold gel touched her inflamed skin.

Bridget gasped, her fingers gripping the bedsheets.

Jevon's touch was agonizingly gentle. His rough fingertips spread the cooling ointment with slow, precise strokes. The contrast between the freezing gel and the burning heat of his fingers sent violent shivers down her spine. She couldn't stop a soft, embarrassing moan from escaping her lips.

Jevon's breathing instantly turned ragged. His hand stopped moving. He stayed frozen for three agonizing seconds, fighting a brutal internal war. Then, he yanked the thick duvet over her body, burying her up to her neck.

He turned his back to her and marched straight into the en-suite bathroom. The sound of freezing water blasting from the faucet filled the room.

Two hours later, Bridget practically sprinted out of the building for her lunch break. She found Gigi sitting at a corner table in the cafe across the street.

Bridget collapsed into the chair, clutching her iced Americano like a lifeline. She leaned across the table and whispered the horrifying truth. The man from last night was the CEO.

Gigi slammed her hands on the table, her eyes widening. "Wait, the CEO? Are you okay? He didn't pressure you, did he?" Gigi scanned Bridget's face frantically. "Okay, crisis check over. Holy crap, Bridget! You hooked the biggest billionaire in the city! You won the lottery!"

Bridget shook her head violently, her stomach churning. "No. I just got out of a nightmare with Jacob. I am not playing power games with a man who can ruin my life with a snap of his fingers. I have to draw a line."

That afternoon, Bridget volunteered to deliver a routine signature file to the top floor. She needed to establish boundaries immediately.

She knocked on the heavy double doors of the CEO's office.

Jevon was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing a financial report. He looked up as she entered.

Bridget walked stiffly to the desk and placed the file down. She kept her eyes fixed on his tie, refusing to look at his face.

"Mr. Rocha," she said, her voice tight and formal. "I brought the budget files. And I wanted to say... I hope we can put yesterday and this morning behind us. I want to maintain a strictly professional relationship."

The office fell into a suffocating silence. Jevon stopped spinning the Montblanc pen in his hand. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. His dark eyes bored into her skull, heavy and calculating.

Just as Bridget felt her knees about to give out, Jevon leaned back in his leather chair. A cold, sharp smile touched the corners of his mouth.

"Fine," he said smoothly.

Bridget let out a massive breath she didn't know she was holding. She bowed her head slightly and practically ran out of the office.

The second the door clicked shut, the smile vanished from Jevon's face. His eyes burned with a dark, obsessive possessiveness. He slammed his hand down on the intercom button.

"Alex," Jevon barked. "Transfer the new high-intensity field project entirely to Ms. Frank's team. Effective immediately."

Three days later, Bridget was running on fumes. The new field project Jevon had assigned her team was brutal. She hadn't slept more than four hours a night, her eyes burning from staring at spreadsheets.

Her stomach let out a painful cramp. She had skipped breakfast again. During her fifteen-minute lunch break, she ran down to the street and bought a spicy shrimp taco from a food truck, desperate for anything to stop the hunger pains.

She was standing in the company pantry, taking her first massive bite of the taco, when her supervisor burst through the door.

"Bridget! The revised budget needs to be on Mr. Rocha's desk right now. He's waiting!"

Bridget nearly choked. She grabbed the file with her left hand, keeping the half-eaten taco in her right, and sprinted toward the elevators. She didn't have time to throw it away.

When she reached the top floor, she took a deep breath, trying to hide the taco behind the thick manila folder as she pushed open the door to the CEO's office.

Jevon was staring at his computer monitors, his tie loosened, looking deeply irritated by whatever data he was reading.

Bridget stepped up to the desk. She kept her voice flat and professional as she started reciting the core numbers from the budget.

Jevon's eyes slowly drifted from the screen to her face. He noticed a tiny speck of spicy sauce clinging to the corner of her mouth. His gaze darkened instantly.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness hit him. He had been working for thirty hours straight without a single meal. His blood sugar was crashing violently. His eyes dropped to the half-eaten taco Bridget was desperately trying to hide behind the folder.

His body reacted before his brain could stop it.

Jevon leaned across the massive desk. He snatched the half-eaten taco from her trembling hand. He brought it close, his dark eyes fixed on her face, before he tossed the cheap street food directly into his designer wastebasket. "This street food doesn't suit you," he murmured. Then, his gaze dropped to the tiny speck of spicy sauce clinging to the corner of her mouth. He reached out, his thumb brushing against her lower lip with agonizing slowness to wipe away the sauce. Maintaining eye contact, he deliberately brought his thumb to his own mouth and licked the spicy residue off his skin.

Bridget gasped, her eyes widening in absolute shock at the sheer intimacy of the gesture. The file slipped from her fingers, scattering papers across the floor.

Jevon chewed and swallowed. He licked the spicy sauce from his lips, a wicked, triumphant gleam in his eyes as he watched her stand there, completely paralyzed.

But a second later, the triumph vanished.

Jevon's face turned stark white. He gasped for air, his hands flying to his throat. The sound of his breathing turned into a wet, ragged wheeze. Bright, angry red hives began erupting across his neck and jawline.

Bridget's heart stopped. "Mr. Rocha? What's wrong?"

Jevon collapsed back into his leather chair, his fingers clawing at his collar. "Shrimp," he choked out, his eyes rolling back slightly.

Bridget's blood turned to ice. The taco. It was a shrimp taco.

She lunged across the desk, slamming her fist onto the intercom button. "Alex! Help! He can't breathe!" she screamed, tears of pure terror springing to her eyes.

The office doors flew open. Alex sprinted in. He took one look at Jevon's purple face and immediately ripped open the medical kit on the wall. He pulled out an EpiPen, tore off the cap, and slammed the needle directly into Jevon's thigh.

Jevon let out a muffled groan. His chest he heave violently as the adrenaline rushed into his system, forcing his airways open.

Bridget stood in the corner, her face stark white, her whole body shaking violently. But she forced herself to stay upright. "I'm so sorry, I had no idea about your allergy," she said, her voice urgent and rational despite the terror in her eyes. "What do you need? I'll cover all medical expenses, I'll do whatever is necessary to compensate."

Jevon slumped in his chair, his breathing harsh but steady. Even in his weakened state, his dark eyes locked onto Bridget, refusing to look away.

Alex turned around, his face twisted in fury, ready to scream at Bridget.

Jevon raised a trembling hand. "Get out, Alex," he rasped.

Alex hesitated, then stormed out, slamming the door.

The silence in the room was deafening. Jevon stared at Bridget's tear-stained face. A calculating shadow crossed his eyes.

"Attempted murder, Ms. Frank," Jevon said, his voice a rough whisper.

Bridget burst into tears, bowing her head repeatedly. "I am so sorry! I didn't know! I'll pay for the medical bills, I'll do anything!"

Jevon let out a weak, cold laugh. "Do you think your salary covers the life of a billionaire?"

Bridget sobbed, her hands covering her face. "What do you want me to do?"

Jevon leaned forward, the trap finally springing shut. " You will come to my penthouse tonight after work.,You will cook for me,That is your compensation."