Chapter3 The CEO's Masterstroke

Ethan's POV

I watched Amanda sleep, dark hair spilled across my pillow like a shadow. Something twisted in my chest—satisfaction mingled with an emotion I refused to name.

She has no idea who she's really sleeping beside. The CEO of Blackwood Group, the man her father tried to destroy.

Pride surged through me. Three months of planning—the escort persona, our "chance" meeting—executed flawlessly. The Davis heiress, seeking comfort, completely blind to my true identity.

Amanda stirred, confusion clouding her eyes before recognition dawned. Vulnerability flickered across her face.

"Morning," I said softly, masking the triumph burning inside me.

She clutched the sheet higher, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. "Did we...?"

"No," I replied, savoring the relief that washed over her face. "You were drunk. I just let you stay here."

So trusting. So easy to manipulate.

"Thank you," she whispered, gratitude softening her features. "Most men wouldn't have—"

"I'm not most men," I interrupted, a statement truer than she could possibly understand.

Her eyes met mine, something warm and appreciative in their depths. My stomach tightened unexpectedly.

Stay focused. She's a means to an end. Nothing more.

"Though you did propose to me," I added with calculated amusement.

Horror bloomed across her face. "I did what?"

"Quite passionately," I continued, enjoying how she squirmed. "You said I was your escape from everything."

She buried her face in her hands, mortification radiating from her. "Oh God."

I sat beside her, close enough that she tensed slightly. "Don't worry. I found it... entertaining."

Anger flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by resignation. "My father would have a stroke if he knew I was here."

Exactly what I want to hear.

"Family troubles?" I asked, injecting just enough concern into my voice.

Bitterness twisted her mouth. "My father is forcing me to marry one of his business partners. A man older than he is."

Disgust rolled through me, genuine and unexpected. "An arranged marriage? In this century?"

"The almighty Davis Group merger matters more than my happiness," she spat, fury and despair warring in her voice.

Perfect. Use her resentment.

"That's barbaric," I said, taking her hand in mine. Her skin felt delicate, almost fragile. Something protective stirred inside me—a useless, dangerous emotion I immediately crushed.

"It's my life," she whispered, a single tear sliding down her cheek.

I wiped it away, the gesture calculated yet somehow sincere. "You deserve better."

She looked up, vulnerability naked in her expression. "Why are you being so kind? I'm just a client."

"Perhaps I see something in you worth caring about," I replied, the practiced line feeling strangely true on my tongue.

Control the narrative. Control her emotions. Control your own.

She dressed quickly, self-consciousness evident in every movement. I watched her, not bothering to hide my interest. I wanted her to feel desired, dependent.

At the door, she hesitated. "Will I see you again?"

Anticipation thrummed through me. "If you'd like."

Hope brightened her eyes. So naive. So perfect for my plans. "I would. Tonight?"

After she left, exhilaration rushed through me. One night, and already she'd revealed the perfect weakness—the forced marriage, her resentment toward her father, the Davis Group merger hanging in the balance.

I poured a celebratory drink, satisfaction burning like the whiskey down my throat. Davis had nearly destroyed Blackwood Group five years ago. Now his daughter would be the instrument of his downfall.

This is justice. This is business. This is revenge.

Yet an uncomfortable feeling nagged at me—her tear, warm against my thumb. The genuine fear in her eyes when she spoke of the arranged marriage. I shook it off impatiently. Sentimentality was weakness.

That evening, she returned looking exhausted, shadows beneath her eyes, tension evident in every line of her body.

"Bad day?" I asked, handing her a glass of wine.

She took a desperate gulp. "My father introduced me to my 'future husband' today. Harold Wilson. He's nearly 50 and looked at me like I was a prize heifer."

Revulsion crawled through me. This wasn't just business manipulation—this was archaic cruelty. "That's despicable."

"That's my father," she laughed bitterly, pain radiating from her. "The great Richard Davis, willing to sell his daughter to secure the Wilson Group acquisition."

The Wilson Group. A key competitor. Crucial information.

"You're not property to be traded," I said, genuine anger coloring my words. Her father was worse than I'd thought.

Gratitude washed over her face, so potent it made something in my chest ache. "No one's ever said that to me before."

I moved closer, taking the glass from her trembling hands. "Tell me about the merger. Maybe there's a way out."

Hope flickered in her eyes—desperate, fragile. "The board votes next week. My father needs Wilson' support to push it through. That's why..." She trailed off, swallowing hard.

"That's why he's selling you," I finished, storing every detail while displaying appropriate disgust.

She nodded, misery etched in every feature. "I've tried everything. Reasoning, begging, threatening to leave. He doesn't care."

She's handing me everything I need.

"Stay tonight," I said softly. "Forget about him, about all of it."

Relief flooded her face. "Yes," she whispered, desperate for salvation.

I led her to the bedroom, triumph and guilt warring within me. Her trust was my weapon against her father.

Later, she curled against me, vulnerable in sleep. I remained awake, plotting.

The Wilson merger was key. Disrupting it would leave Davis Group vulnerable. Amanda had unwittingly given me everything I needed.

Everything is falling into place perfectly.

Yet as I watched her sleep, something unfamiliar stirred in my chest. Her delicate features, relaxed in sleep, stirred a protective instinct I hadn't felt in years.

She's just collateral damage, I reminded myself harshly. Her father's the target.

Morning light filtered through the curtains. I made coffee while she dressed, her movements quicker, more decisive than the day before.

"You seem different today," I observed, handing her a mug.

Determination hardened her features. "I'm going to fight this marriage. Somehow."

Pride flickered through me—unexpected, unwelcome. "Good."

She studied my face, curiosity in her gaze. "You know, I don't even know your real name."

If only she knew.

"Does it matter?" I asked carefully.

"I suppose not," she admitted, a soft smile curving her lips. "You're the only person who's ever really listened to me."

Guilt stabbed through me, sharp and surprising. I pushed it away firmly.

Remember what her father did to you. To your family. To Blackwood Group.

At the door, she paused, vulnerability flickering across her face. "Can I see you again tonight?"

"Of course," I replied, the eagerness in my voice not entirely feigned.

After she left, I immediately called my assistant. "I need everything on the Wilson Group and their proposed merger with Davis. Financials, board members, voting predictions. Find their weakness."

I stared at her forgotten earring on my nightstand, small and delicate. Just like her trust in me. For a moment, the thrill of revenge tasted bitter in my mouth.

She's innocent in all this. Her father is the enemy, not her.

I dismissed the thought ruthlessly. In business, as in war, there were always casualties. Amanda Davis was simply one more.

Yet as I prepared for her return, anticipation thrummed through me—not just for the information she would reveal, but for her smile, her presence. A dangerous complication.

Control the emotions. Control the outcome. Control everything.

Tonight, I would extract more details about the Wilson merger. Tomorrow, I would begin dismantling Davis Group piece by piece. And when it was all over, when her father was ruined and Blackwood Group triumphant, what would become of Amanda?