Billionaire's Innocent Obsession

Cecelia's  Pov

Life didn't just hand you cards in New York City; it slammed them face-down on the concrete and dared you to pick them up.

I leaned over the small, stained sink in our cramped Astoria studio apartment, splashing cold water onto my face to shake the persistent, bone-deep fatigue that had become my permanent shadow. Looking up into the cracked mirror, I couldn't help but sigh. God had given me a face that looked like it belonged in a classic romance novel-porcelain skin, long dark lashes, and full, pouty lips. But down below, He had cursed me with a body that was impossible to hide. My waist was impossibly small, flaring out into heavy, voluptuous, and breathtakingly curved hips that stretched every pair of cheap jeans I owned past their breaking point. My full breasts strained against my threadbare shirts, drawing the kind of hungry, lingering stares from men on the subway that always made me want to shrink into the shadows.

But right now, my looks couldn't pay the bills.

Eighty thousand dollars.

The memory of the hospital administrator's cold voice from yesterday morning echoed in my ears. That was the price tag on my father's life-saving heart surgery. He was currently confined to a sterile bed in a public hospital ward in Queens, his heart failing more with every tick of the clock. My family had never known wealth; my father had worked himself to the bone as a construction labourer until his body broke, leaving me with a mountain of medical debt and a desperate, clawing need for a miracle.

"Cee! You're going to be late for your shift at the diner!"

The bedroom screen door slid open, and my best friend, Sarah, stepped into the small bathroom, aggressively applying a layer of fiery red lipstick. Sarah was the only reason I wasn't sleeping on a park bench. She had let me squat in her tiny, one-room apartment for the last six months, sharing her single bed and her meagre groceries while I scrambled for any under-the-table work I could find.

Sarah worked as a low-level data entry clerk at the monolithic Vance Conglomerate Headquarters in midtown. And like ninety per cent of the female population in Manhattan, she was utterly, hopelessly obsessed with her billionaire CEO, Damian Vance.

"I'm moving, I'm moving," I mumbled, tying my hair back into a tight, sensible bun.

"Oh my God, Cee, you won't believe what happened at the office yesterday," Sarah gushed, her eyes lighting up with a fanatical glow as she leaned against the doorframe. "I actually saw him. Damian Vance walked right past my cubicle section on his way to the private elevator. He is so devastatingly handsome it literally hurts to look at him. He moves like a panther in those ten-thousand-dollar custom suits."

I rolled my eyes gently, sliding into my faded wool coat. "Sarah, the man is a notorious womaniser. The tabloids show him with a different supermodel every single night."

"And I would gladly be one of them!" Sarah gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. "You don't understand, Cee. It is impossible to get anywhere near him. He has a wall of terrifying, black-suited bodyguards surrounding him at all times, and he's only ever seen with high-class, old-money socialites. But honestly? I dream about just having a one-night chance with him. Just one night in his bed would change my life forever. The parting gifts alone could pay off our back rent for a decade!"

I shook my head, a familiar pit of worry tightening in my stomach. Our landlord, Mr Henderson, had already slipped a final eviction notice under the door. We were two months behind, and the threat of the streets loomed over us like a guillotine.

"Just promise me you won't do anything stupid near his property," Sarah warned, her playful tone suddenly turning dead serious as she grabbed her purse. "I know you love looking at fashion, Cee, but I'm warning you: do not go near that luxury flagship window shop on Fifth Avenue. The one owned by Vance Retail. It's strictly for the wealthiest people on the planet. If security catches a girl from Queens in a faded coat lingering outside, they'll mistake you for a thief or a stray looking for trouble. Stay away from his world."

"I know, Sarah. I'm not stupid," I lied quietly, avoiding her eyes.

The truth was, I had already disobeyed her. My evening job was cleaning a small, independent bakery just two blocks down from the glittering facade of Vance Luxury. Every night, after scrubbing the flour off the counters and locking up the shop, I would walk past his flagship boutique. In a world full of decay, debt, and hospital monitors, that window display was my only escape.

Later that night, the sky completely broke open. The rain was torrential, a freezing downpour that hammered against the concrete as I finally turned the key to close the bakery doors. I was freezing, my cheap boots already soaked through, but as I walked toward the subway, a hypnotic pull drew my eyes across the street.

There it was. The Vance Luxury window, glowing like a warm oasis in the dark storm.

Behind the glass stood a mannequin wearing the most magnificent emerald-green silk gown I had ever seen. The fabric looked fluid, draping elegantly over a frame that, for once, actually matched my own heavy, voluptuous curves. I stepped closer to the glass, holding my cheap, broken five-dollar umbrella aloft, completely transfixed. For a beautiful, fleeting ten seconds, I forgot about the eighty-thousand-dollar surgery. I forgot about the eviction notice. I just stared, imagining what it would feel like to wear liquid jewel instead of a threadbare coat.

I decided to take one last, lingering glance at the beautiful dress before plunging into the subway station.

But my fantasy shattered instantly.

The heavy glass door of the boutique swung open, and a towering, imposing figure stepped out into the rain. It was him. Damian Vance. His broad shoulders cut through the dim streetlights, his jawline sharp and ruthless, his storm-gray eyes locking directly onto mine with a raw, predatory intensity that made my breath completely vanish.

Panic exploded in my chest. Sarah's warning flashed in my mind-they might mistake you for a thief.

Terrified of his suffocating presence and the dangerous hunger flashing in his gaze, I dropped my broken umbrella onto the wet concrete. Turning on my heel, I bolted blindly into the dark, rainy night, my heart pounding against my ribs, completely unaware that the wolf was already tracking my scent.