Page 20 of The CEO's Obsession

"Are you alright?" Mason asks, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"I'm fine," I assure him, squeezing his hand. "Just a bit overwhelmed by...everything."

His thumb traces circles on my skin, and I feel my pulse quicken in response. "We can leave if you'd like."

The offer is tempting, but I'm not ready to be alone with him again just yet. My emotions are still too raw, too confusing. "Maybe later. I want to see the rest of the exhibit first."

Mason nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "As you wish."

We continue our tour, and I can't help but notice how he positions himself between me and other patrons, how his eyes constantly scan our surroundings. It should feel stifling, but instead, I find myself leaning into his protective aura.

When we pause before a hauntingly beautiful landscape, Mason releases my hand only to wrap his arm around my waist, drawing me against his side. I inhale sharply at the contact, my body remembering his touch all too vividly.

"What do you think?" he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

I struggle to focus on the painting, hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect. "It's...lonely," I manage. "Beautiful, but isolated."

Mason's arm tightens almost imperceptibly. "Not everything beautiful needs to be alone," he says softly, and I wonder if we're still talking about the art.

As we move to the next piece, I find myself leaning into his embrace, my earlier reservations fading beneath the weight of his attention. I can't say I hate this newfound protectiveness, this constant physical connection between us.

In fact, as Mason's fingers trace idle patterns on my hip, I realize with a start that I might be enjoying it far more than I should.

But just as I think that, Mason goes berserk. A waiter walks by us and does a double take. His eyes rove up and down me before he lets out a whistle. I hear Mason's growl deep in his throat before he's suddenly on the man, his fist landing square in the guy's jaw. I'm mortified.

The waiter stumbles backward, crashing into a nearby sculpture. The delicate glass piece teeters precariously before shattering on the polished marble floor. The sound of breaking glass seems to echo through the suddenly silent gallery.

"Mason!" I gasp, grabbing his arm as he rears back for another punch. "Stop!"

But he's beyond reason, his eyes dark with fury. "You dare disrespect her?" he snarls at the waiter, who's cowering on the floor, blood trickling from his split lip.

Security guards materialize from nowhere, converging on us. One grabs Mason's shoulder, trying to pull him back. Mason shrugs him off with ease, his muscles coiled tight beneath his tailored suit.

"Sir, you need to calm down," the guard says firmly.

Mason's jaw clenches. "Do you know who I am?"

The threat in his voice is unmistakable. I feel a chill run down my spine. This isn't the Mason I know—or thought I knew. This man is dangerous, unhinged.

"I don't care if you're the King of France," the guard replies. "You can't assault our staff."

Murmurs ripple through the crowd of onlookers. I catch snippets of whispered conversations?—

"Isn't that Mason Blackwood?"

"The billionaire?"

"What's he doing here?"

My cheeks burn with humiliation. This is exactly the kind of scene I never wanted to be part of. I tug on Mason's arm again, more insistently this time.

"Mason, please," I plead. "Let's just go."

For a moment, I think he hasn't heard me. Then, slowly, he turns to face me. The rage in his eyes fades, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable.

"Harper," he says, his voice low. "I'm sorry. I just...I couldn't stand the way he looked at you."

I swallow hard, torn between understanding his protective instinct and being appalled by his violent outburst. "We need to leave. Now."

---