Page 127 of Possessive Billionaire's Twisted Hunt

Christian’s grip tightened on the pen in his hand, his patience wearing thin.

Sawyer leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Look, man, I don’t want to be that guy, but do you hear yourself? You don’t even know her name, and you’re out here trying to track her down like some kind of romantic vigilante.” He shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “If you go digging into some random woman’s life, it’s going to come off as creepy. You’re the CEO of a billion-dollar company, not some lovesick teenager.”

Christian clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking in irritation. He knew Sawyer had a point. He wasn’t the type to chase afterwomen. In fact, he barely let himself get involved beyond business-level relationships. And yet, this was different.

This woman had managed to unravel something inside him with a single stare. He hadn’t even thanked her. He had just stood there, frozen, watching her disappear.

Days passed. Then a week.

He told himself to let it go. To forget about the girl with the warm eyes and the soft voice. But she lingered. In the scent of coffee wafting through the office, in the flickering memory of her concerned gaze. It was maddening. He was losing sleep, staring at the ceiling every night, wondering if he’d ever see her again.

Then fate intervened.

A thick folder landed on his desk one morning, a dull thud against the polished wood.

Christian barely glanced at it. These things weren’t his concern—Samuel handled the approval of interns. Normally, Christian wouldn’t have even bothered flipping through it. But today, boredom, or maybe something else, something restless and unshakable, had him reaching for the folder.

His fingers brushed over the crisp edges of the pages as he absentmindedly flipped through them, skimming past names and faces he didn’t recognize, faces that didn’t matter.

And then—

His breath stalled.

His hand froze mid-turn, his grip tightening on the sheet as his gaze locked onto a single photograph.

Everything around him—the quiet hum of the office, the distant murmurs of his employees, the steady ticking of the clock on the wall—faded into nothing.

The world shrank to the image in front of him.

A woman.

Her eyes held an unmistakable warmth, but there was something in them, something guarded, something hauntingly familiar. Her soft features stirred a memory buried deep in his chest, one he had never been able to shake. The shape of her lips, the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her hair fell over her shoulders—it hit him like a fist to the gut.

His pulse slammed against his ribs.

No. It couldn’t be.

His breathing grew shallow as his gaze darted to the text beneath the image. His heart pounded so violently it drowned out every other sound as he read the name written there.

Ivy Watson.

The name rolled through his mind, foreign and yet—familiar. Like a delicate whisper.

His fingers clenched around the paper, his knuckles turning white.

It was her.

A sharp scrape echoed through the office as his chair shot back against the floor. The abrupt movement jolted Sawyer, who had been sitting across from him, flipping through his own paperwork.

“The hell—” Sawyer started, blinking in confusion.

But Christian wasn’t listening. His body moved on instinct, his muscles coiled tight with a need he hadn’t felt in years. He snatched his coat from the back of his chair, his movements sharp, purposeful.

Sawyer frowned, his gaze flicking to the folder still open on Christian’s desk. “Where are you going?”

Christian barely spared him a glance.

“To find my future wife.”

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