Page 68 of Texting the CEO's Obsession
I’m not mad athim, obviously—his privacy was invaded just as much as mine was, and he has a lot more to lose—but it’s an unnerving situation. Four o’clock has just barely rolled around when my phone chimes with another text, and I hesitantly glance at the preview.
Nick: I’m sure you’re freaked out about this, sweetheart, and if you need space, I’ll
respect that, but I just want to make sure you’re okay with my own eyes. At least text me back if I can’t see you, Princess.
A fond smile creases my face as I internally melt. If I’m honest, I’ve only been hiding away in my apartment all day because I know I’m going to break down in tears when I see him.
Riley: If I leave soon, I can meet you at yours when you get off work.
Nick: I’d love that. The elevator code is 2262 and the door code is 5141. I might be a little late, you can let yourself in. Park in spot 7, it’s my spare.
My heart leaps at the show of trust, and I feel even worse for ignoring him all day. He’s not as open as I am about most things. I know this is a more meaningful gesture than our fancy dinner last night was, in the grand scheme of things.
Riley: I’ll be on my way soon. Drive safe <3
I lock my phone and stand up before I can do something stupid like pour my heart out to him over text.
A quick change of clothes and a brush of my teeth is all I bother with before I hop in my car and head off toward Nick’s. My hair is loose and frizzy from how much I tugged at it throughout the night, and I’m sure I have eyebags from hell right now, but if he can’t handle me looking rough around the edges considering the circumstances, but I have a feeling he won’t care about that.
By the time I reach his building, he’s already on his way home.
I park in the spot he told me to and key in the code when I make it to the elevator. It beeps a cheerful song at me before the penthouse lights turn on. The doors close as the elevator lurches into movement. I pick idly at my nails as it climbs the floors steadily, wondering if I should have just waited for him. He’ll be home soon enough, and it might be weird being in his place alone.
I’d feel bad not taking the trust he gave me by letting me in without him, though. I don’t want to toss that gesture back in his face.
I’m still stewing on it when the doors slide open on the hallway that leads to his front door. It’s just as showroom perfect as I remember, with paintings adorning the walls and plants lining the walkway. His door mat is still slightly crooked from where I accidentally knocked it out of place when I left last night, and I smile as I straighten it.
The sight makes me feel a bit more like I belong here.
I key in the code to his front door and step inside, flicking the lights on behind me. His place feels even more untouchably perfect without him here. At least he’s comfortable in his space. Alone, it feels like I’m walking into a magazine spread.
I shake my head at my own thoughts and walk further in, gnawing at my lip as I try to decide what to do. It would be weird to just sprawl out on the couch or help myself to something to drink, especially with how impersonal most of his penthouse is, but his office door is cracked open. I find myself drawn to it. Maybe it’s just because he’s still my boss, but it feels like more neutral territory.
A mix of work and home.
I didn’t get much of a chance to look around last night, but my lips twitch in fond amusement when I flick the light on and step into the office. It’s a little less utilitarian in here, a single framed photo of his family on the wall. The room is done up in the same navy blue and dark browns that his office at work is rather than the furniture catalogue greys and browns that fill out the living room, although it’s less organized than I’m used to seeing from him. Not in any big way, but there’s an empty whiskey glass still sitting on the edge of the desk and a pen lying on his mousepad like he forgot to put it back in the drawer.
My smile falters when my eyes drop to the low table in front of the couch.
Laminated copies of the photos are strewn out on the table on top of several files and a few pages of handwritten notes. I swallow heavily before deciding to tidy things up a bit, if only for my own peace of mind.
I don’t want to look at those pictures any more than I have to.
It doesn’t take long to get the table sorted, photos in a neat stack on top of the emails he printed out between him and his lawyer and the notes in his neat scrawl. All that’s left is the manila file folder underneath it all. I lift it to read the label printed on the tab curiously as I take a seat on the couch. Confusion swims through my mind, thick and syrupy, when I read my own name.
What would Nick have a file on me for? Is it information that might help figure out who did this, or maybe paperwork I need to go through to help his lawyer or the cops?
It feels awfully thick for those possibilities.
Flipping it open with my thumb, I start scanning through the text. Page after page of information about me is laid out in neatblack text. My height, my weight, my birthday, my hometown. Every address I’ve ever lived at, extracurriculars I took in college, my childhood. My lunch order from the cafe Taylor and I eat at sometimes. Information on my friends, where I get my groceries, my fuckingmom.
“What thefuck?” I whisper into the silent room, horror creeping through my veins.
This isn’t information for whatever case Nick may be working to build around the photos, and it sure as shit isn’t information he could have gotten in a single night. He’shadthis.
How long has he had this?
Whydoes he have it?
