Page 1 of The CEO's Obsession

CHAPTER

ONE

Mason

The sleek blackAston Martin purrs to a stop, its engine a low growl that vibrates through my bones. I step out, Italian leather shoes meeting century-old cobblestones with a satisfying click. Oakwood Town Square unfolds before me, a quaint chessboard of old money and small-town charm.

My gaze sweeps over the scene, cataloging every detail. The ornate gazebo, strings of twinkling lights, the air thick with the scent of overpriced canapés and desperation. A fundraiser. How predictably tedious.

I straighten my cuffs, ignoring the mix of awed and uneasy stares. Let them look. Let them wonder. I'm here to claim what's mine, not to make friends.

"Mr. Blackwood!" A portly man in an ill-fitting suit hurries over. "We weren't expecting you until?—"

I cut him off with a raised hand. "Plans change." My voice is clipped, bored. "I assume everything's in order?"

He nods frantically. "Of course, sir. If you'll just follow me, I can introduce you to?—"

Something—or rather someone—catches my eye. A flash of color in the sea of beige and black. I turn, my attention razor-sharp.

She moves through the crowd like a flame, all wild energy and defiance. Paint-splattered jeans, a loose shirt that's more canvas than clothing. Bright copper curls bounce with each step as she navigates the crowd, a tray of drinks balanced expertly in one hand.

My breath catches. She's...exquisite. Raw. Completely out of place in this sanitized world of fake smiles and hollow promises.

I watch as she dodges wandering hands and poorly disguised sneers. The urge to intervene, to claim, rises within me. I tamp it down. Not yet.

"Sir?" The man beside me shifts nervously.

I don't spare him a glance. "Who is she?"

He follows my gaze, frowning. "Oh. One of the local artists, I believe. We let them set up booths for exposure, you know. Good PR and all that."

My eyes narrow on a riot of color beyond the girl. Canvases exploding with emotion, each one a window into a passionate, untamed soul.

"Her name," I demand quietly.

"I...I'm not sure, sir. Harper something, I think?"

Harper. It suits her.

I start forward, drawn by an instinct I can't explain.

The man's voice fades behind me. "Mr. Blackwood? Where are you going? We need to discuss the?—"

I ignore him. My focus is singular now.

I have found what I want. And Mason Blackwood always gets what he wants.

I can’t tear my eyes away from her as Harper reaches her booth, setting down the tray with a sigh that speaks of both relief and frustration. Her fingers immediately move to a canvas,tilting it just so. Even from here, I can see the paint stains on her hands—evidence of her dedication, her passion.

I'm close now, drinking in every detail. The freckles dusting her nose. The stubborn set of her jaw. The way her eyes dance with barely contained fire.

She stiffens suddenly, her gaze snapping up to meet mine. I don't look away. I can't.

For a moment, we're locked in a silent battle of wills. I see the flicker of irritation in her eyes, quickly followed by a spark of curiosity. She's wary, but intrigued.Good.

I stride forward, aware of the conversations dying around me, the heads turning. I don't care. Let them look. Let them wonder.

My attention is fixed solely on Harper and the vibrant chaos of her art. Each piece is a raw scream of emotion, unfiltered and unapologetic. It's...arresting.

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