Page 25 of The CEO's Obsession

I back away, bumping into an easel. Tubes of paint clatter to the floor, splattering vibrant colors across the worn floorboards. The scent of linseed oil fills the air, mingling with the tension.

"Mason, please," I plead, hating the tremor in my voice. "Just go. We can talk about this later."

His eyes soften for a moment, and I catch a glimpse of the man I fell for. But then his jaw clenches, and that tenderness is replaced by steely determination.

In two long strides, he closes the distance between us.

I yelp as he grabs me, easily lifting me off my feet. The world spins as he throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. My fists beat uselessly against his broad back.

"Put her down!" Tyler shouts, lunging forward.

Mason turns, keeping me balanced effortlessly. "Stay out of this if you know what's good for you," he snarls at Tyler. "This is between me and Harper."

As Mason carries me out of the flat, I catch one last glimpse of Tyler's stricken face.

I kick against Mason's muscular back, my heels drumming a frantic rhythm. It's like striking a brick wall—he barely seems to notice. The Parisian night air is cool on my flushed skin as he carries me down the narrow staircase, my hair brushing against the peeling wallpaper.

"Let me go!" I yell, my voice echoing in the stairwell. An elderly woman pokes her head out of her apartment, eyes wide with alarm. Mason flashes her a charming smile, as if this is all perfectly normal.

"Newlyweds," he explains smoothly in flawless French. "Too much champagne."

The woman tuts sympathetically and retreats back inside. I want to scream for help, but the words stick in my throat.

Outside, the streets of Montmartre are alive with tourists and locals enjoying the balmy evening. Cafés spill out onto the sidewalks, the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter a stark contrast to the tension thrumming through my body. A street artist is capturing the scene in bold strokes of color, and for a surreal moment, I wonder if we'll end up immortalized in his painting—the furious billionaire and his unwilling captive.

Mason strides purposefully towards a sleek black car idling at the curb, its engine a low purr. With one fluid motion, he opens the passenger door and deposits me inside. Before I can even think about escaping, he's efficiently buckled me in, the seatbelt a restraint I can't break free from.

I'm still struggling when he slides into the driver's seat, the leather creaking beneath him. The car's interior smells of expensive cologne and new leather. It's achingly familiar—the scent of wealth and power that always clings to Mason.

"Where are you taking me?" I demand, hating how small my voice sounds.

Mason's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror as he pulls away from the curb. The glow from the dashboard casts shadows across his face, making him look even more dangerous and alluring.

"Back to the Ritz," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Where else?"

The car glides through the Parisian streets, a bubble of luxury insulating us from the vibrant nightlife outside. We pass the Moulin Rouge, its famous windmill casting red light across our faces. Tourists crowd the sidewalks, oblivious to the drama unfolding mere feet away.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching my breath fog the pane. The Eiffel Tower looms in the distance, a glittering sentinel over the city. It feels like acruel joke—I'm in one of the most romantic cities in the world, trapped with a man I both desire and fear.

Mason's knuckles are white on the steering wheel, the only outward sign of his tension. The silence between us grows until he finally breaks it. “Why did you run from me?”

I scoff. “As if you don’t know.”

“I don’t,” he deadpans. “Tell me.”

I stare at Mason in disbelief, my mouth hanging open. The lights of Paris streak past us, casting alternating shadows and illumination across his chiseled features. His dark eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, but I can see the muscle in his jaw working.

"Are you serious?" I finally sputter. "The artist communities, Mason. The ones you've systematically destroyed with your 'urban renewal' projects."

He glances at me, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "What artist communities?"

I feel like I've been doused in ice water. Could Tyler have been wrong? No, impossible. I press on, the words tumbling out in a rush.

"The Warehouse District in Chicago. That collective in Brooklyn. The entire Arts Quarter in San Francisco. Your company swoops in, buys up property for pennies, and then forces out all the artists and small business owners to build luxury condos and artisanal coffee shops."

I gesture wildly, nearly smacking my hand on the leather-wrapped ceiling of the car. "Hundreds of people lost their homes, their studios, their livelihoods. And for what? So you could turn a bigger profit?"

Mason's grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles turning white. We glide past the illuminated facade of the Louvre, its pyramid glowing like a beacon in the night. Thejuxtaposition of ancient and modern architecture seems fitting for this surreal conversation.

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