Escaping My Cold And Jealous CEO

The heavy bass of the lounge music vibrated through the soles of Alexandrea's boots, traveling up her legs and settling as a dull ache in her chest.

She sat at the neon-lit bar, her eyes locked on the massive flat-screen television mounted above the top-shelf liquor.

The screen flashed with high-definition images of Barron Santana.

He looked exactly as he always did-impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit, his jaw sharp, his ice-blue eyes staring blankly at the flashing cameras. Standing next to him was Cheslie Schroeder, a socialite with a flawless smile, her hand resting on his chest. A massive diamond ring sparkled on her finger. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen read: Santana CEO Announces Engagement.

Alexandrea's fingers tightened around her whiskey glass. Her knuckles turned stark white.

She stared at the screen until her eyes burned. The air in her lungs felt like thick mud. She tipped her head back and swallowed the amber liquid in one harsh gulp. The alcohol burned a path down her throat, settling like a hot coal in her empty stomach.

She slammed the empty glass down onto the sticky surface of the bar. She raised two fingers at the bartender.

The bartender looked at her, his eyes dropping to the three empty glasses already lined up in front of her. He hesitated, but he grabbed the bottle and poured another round.

The high-proof alcohol was already working its way into her bloodstream. The edges of the room began to blur. The neon lights smeared into long, colorful streaks.

A man in a cheap, overly tight suit slid into the empty stool beside her. He smelled like stale smoke and cheap mints.

"Let me get that for you, sweetheart," the man said.

His hand clamped down on Alexandrea's bare shoulder. His fingers were clammy.

Alexandrea's body reacted before her brain did. Five years of elite bodyguard training flared to life. Her muscles coiled. She reached up, grabbed his wrist, and twisted hard, stepping off the stool to use his momentum against him.

But her feet didn't move the way they were supposed to. The whiskey had severed the connection between her brain and her limbs. She stumbled, her boot catching on the metal footrest of the bar stool.

The man laughed. It was a wet, greasy sound. He used her loss of balance to wrap his thick arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest.

"Feisty," he muttered, his hot breath hitting her neck.

"Bastard," Alexandrea hissed.

She pulled her left arm back and threw a punch aimed straight at his jaw.

It was slow. Too slow. The man easily caught her fist in his large hand, squeezing her knuckles until they ground together. Alexandrea gritted her teeth against the pain, her vision swimming.

Across the dark room, in the VIP section, Cassidy Gross sat sinking into a leather booth.

He held a martini glass loosely in his hand. The client across from him was talking about quarterly projections, but Cassidy wasn't listening. His dark eyes scanned the crowded bar, bored and restless.

His gaze stopped on the woman struggling at the bar.

He recognized the dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail. He recognized the tactical pants and the plain black t-shirt. It was Alexandrea. His junior from college. The girl who used to throw guys twice her size onto the mat in the campus gym.

Cassidy's bored expression vanished. He slammed his martini glass onto the table. The glass cracked.

He stood up, cutting off the client mid-sentence, and walked straight toward the bar.

He moved fast. He reached the man in the cheap suit, grabbed the back of his collar, and yanked backward with all his weight.

The man let go of Alexandrea and stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby table.

"What the hell is your problem?" the man yelled, raising his fists.

Before the man could take a step forward, two massive men in dark suits stepped out from behind Cassidy. They formed a solid wall of muscle between Cassidy and the man. The man took one look at the bodyguards, swallowed hard, and backed away into the crowd.

Cassidy ignored him. He shrugged off his custom Tom Ford jacket and wrapped it tightly around Alexandrea's shaking shoulders.

Alexandrea blinked up at him. Her eyes were unfocused, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol.

"Cassidy?" she mumbled. Her words slurred together.

"I've got you," Cassidy said.

He wrapped his arm around her waist. He didn't ask questions. He just pulled her against his side and guided her through the dense crowd, out the heavy glass doors of the lounge.

The cold autumn air of Manhattan hit Alexandrea's face. She shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around herself.

They stopped next to a Midnight Blue Porsche 911 parked illegally at the curb.

"Give me your address," Cassidy said, opening the passenger door. "I'm taking you home."

Alexandrea shook her head violently. "No. No home. Can't go home."

Her voice cracked. She looked like a terrified animal.

Cassidy let out a heavy breath. He looked at her pale face and the tears pooling in her eyes.

"Alright," he said softly. "Get in."

He helped her into the low leather seat, shut the door, and walked around to the driver's side. If she wouldn't go home, he was taking her to his hotel.

The Porsche tires squealed as Cassidy pulled into the underground parking garage of The Plaza Hotel.

He put the car in park and killed the engine. He unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over to Alexandrea. She was slumped against the window, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow and uneven.

Cassidy unbuckled her belt. He stepped out of the car, walked around to her side, and scooped her into his arms.

Alexandrea didn't fight him. Her head rolled against his chest. Her hands reached up, her fingers weakly gripping the fabric of his dress shirt.

Cassidy carried her toward the private elevator reserved for the penthouse suites. He pulled a sleek black keycard from his pocket and tapped it against the sensor. The doors slid open instantly.

He stepped inside. The elevator shot upward at a dizzying speed.

The sudden loss of gravity made Alexandrea groan. Her stomach churned. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her face harder into Cassidy's chest.

"Almost there," Cassidy murmured. He adjusted his grip, holding her a little tighter to keep her steady.

The doors opened to the top floor. Cassidy carried her down the wide, silent hallway. He kicked open the heavy oak door to his suite and walked straight into the massive living room.

He stopped at the center of the room and gently lowered Alexandrea onto the deep, velvet cushions of the sofa.

The second her back hit the cushions, Alexandrea let out a frustrated sound. She kicked her legs out in frustration, sending one of her heavy combat boots slipping off her foot. It landed heavily on the thick Persian rug with a dull, muted thud.

Cassidy sighed. He stepped over the discarded boot on the floor and reached up to loosen his tie.

Suddenly, Alexandrea shot up from the couch. Her eyes were wide open, completely red, and completely blind to her surroundings.

"Barron!" she screamed.

The name ripped out of her throat. It was a sound of pure, agonizing heartbreak. Tears spilled over her eyelashes and tracked rapidly down her cheeks.

Cassidy froze. His hands dropped from his tie. A sharp, ugly spike of jealousy hit his chest.

He closed the distance between them and grabbed her shoulders, trying to push her back down. "Alexandrea, lie down. You're drunk."

Alexandrea fought him. The combat instincts buried in her bones took over. She grabbed the lapels of his shirt, twisting the fabric in her fists, and yanked him downward with terrifying strength.

Cassidy lost his balance and fell forward, catching himself with his hands on either side of her head.

Their faces were inches apart. Alexandrea blinked. Her eyes tried to focus on his features.

She saw the dark hair. She saw the warm brown eyes. It wasn't the cold, ice-blue stare she wanted. It wasn't him.

A fresh wave of devastation crashed over her. She let out a broken sob.

The pain in her chest was too much. She couldn't breathe. She needed an outlet. She grabbed Cassidy's right hand, pulled it to her mouth, and sank her teeth into the thick muscle between his thumb and index finger.

She bit down hard.

Cassidy sucked in a sharp breath. The pain was instant and piercing. His muscles locked up.

Blood welled up around her teeth, warm and metallic. It smeared against the corner of her lips.

Cassidy didn't pull away. He didn't yell. He looked down at her face, covered in tears and twisted in agony, and the anger in his chest completely dissolved. It was replaced by a heavy, suffocating need to protect her.

He gritted his teeth against the pain. He lifted his left hand and pressed it against the back of her head, stroking her hair.

"It's okay," he whispered. "I'm here."

Slowly, the tension drained out of Alexandrea's jaw. Her teeth released his hand. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she went completely limp against the cushions, falling into a deep, alcohol-induced sleep.

Cassidy carefully pulled his bleeding hand away. He looked at the deep, crescent-shaped puncture wounds. Blood dripped onto the velvet couch.

He stared at her sleeping face. He knew, right then, that he was in deep trouble.

The executive floor of Santana Corp was dead silent.

M. Thorne stood outside the heavy frosted glass doors of the CEO's office. He stared at the encrypted tablet in his hands. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his temple.

He took a deep breath, raised his knuckles, and knocked twice on the glass.

Inside, the main lights were off. The only illumination came from the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glowing grid of Manhattan.

Barron Santana sat behind his sprawling mahogany desk. He was staring at a stack of PR releases regarding his engagement to Cheslie. His face was a mask of perfect, terrifying calm.

"Enter," Barron said. His voice was flat.

Thorne pushed the door open. He walked softly, his shoes making no sound on the carpet. He stopped in front of the desk and held out the tablet with both hands.

Barron didn't look up. He unscrewed the cap of his Montblanc fountain pen. "Report."

Thorne swallowed hard. His throat was dry. "Miss West did not return to her apartment tonight, sir."

Barron's hand stopped moving. The gold nib of the pen hovered a millimeter above the paper. A drop of black ink fell, bleeding into the crisp white page.

Barron slowly raised his head. His ice-blue eyes locked onto Thorne. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"She was picked up by Cassidy Gross," Thorne forced the words out. "He took her to The Plaza Hotel. To his penthouse."

Snap.

The sound echoed sharply in the quiet room. Barron had gripped the Montblanc pen so hard that the thick resin barrel snapped in half.

Black ink exploded over his fingers, splattering onto the cuffs of his custom French shirt.

Barron stood up. He shoved his chair back so violently it screeched against the hardwood floor. He snatched the tablet out of Thorne's hands.

He stared at the screen. It was a high-resolution photo taken by his private security team. It showed Cassidy Gross carrying Alexandrea in his arms, walking into the lobby of The Plaza. Her head was resting on his chest.

The image burned into Barron's retinas. His chest tightened so painfully he couldn't draw a full breath. The jealousy was a physical fire, burning up his throat, destroying every ounce of his legendary control.

"Get me the interior footage," Barron ordered. His voice was a low, dangerous growl. "Now."

Thorne rushed to the side console. He typed rapidly, hacking into the hotel's security feed. He cast the video onto the massive screen on the wall.

The video played in black and white. It showed the elevator. It showed Cassidy looking down at Alexandrea. It showed the way Cassidy's arm tightened around her waist.

Barron's vision went red.

He pulled his right arm back and slammed his fist down onto the tempered glass coffee table next to his desk.

The glass shuddered under the impact. The skin across Barron's knuckles split open. Blood welled up, mixing with the black ink on his skin.

Thorne took a quick step backward, terrified. He had worked for Barron for ten years and had never seen him lose physical control.

Barron grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk. He wiped the blood and ink off his hand with brutal, jerky motions. His chest heaved.

"Cancel all my meetings for tomorrow morning," Barron said, tossing the bloody tissue into the trash. "Cancel the board review. Cancel the press call."

He pointed a shaking finger at the frozen image of Alexandrea on the screen.

"The second she swipes her badge tomorrow," Barron said, his voice dripping with venom, "bring her straight to my office."

Thorne nodded quickly and practically ran out of the room.

Barron stood alone in the dark. He stared at the screen, his bloody hand clenched into a tight fist at his side.