Page 26 of The CEO's Obsession

"Harper," he says slowly, as if explaining something to a child, "I have no idea what you're talking about. My company doesn't do urban renewal projects. We're primarily in tech and finance."

I blink rapidly, trying to process this information. "But...but Tyler said..."

Mason's laugh is sharp and humorless. "Tyler? You mean the guy who's been trying to get into your pants since art school?"

I open my mouth to protest, but Mason continues. “Just because you friend-zoned him years ago doesn’t mean the guy won’t stop trying.”

He takes a hand off the wheel to run it through his hair in frustration. "Christ, Harper. Did it ever occur to you to fact-check before running off with him?"

We're approaching the Place de la Concorde now, the obelisk at its center stretching towards the star-studded sky. The car slows as we hit traffic, giving me a moment to collect my scattered thoughts.

"But...Tyler wouldn’t make up something like that," I say weakly.

Mason's eyes flicker to me, a mixture of frustration and something softer—hurt, maybe?—in their depths. The Ferris wheel of the Place de la Concorde looms before us, its lights reflecting off the Seine like scattered diamonds. He maneuvers the car smoothly through the roundabout, the Arc de Triomphe rising in the distance like a ghostly sentinel.

"Harper," he says, his voice low and intense, "I don't think Tyler intentionally lied to you. But I think he made a crucial mistake."

We turn onto the Champs-Élysées, the famous avenue stretching before us like a glittering ribbon. The trees lining thestreet are festooned with twinkling lights, creating a magical canopy above. Late-night shoppers stroll past haute couture boutiques, their windows gleaming with the latest fashions.

"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mason sighs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. A street performer on the corner is breathing fire, the flames casting eerie shadows across the faces of the gathered crowd. The scent of roasting chestnuts wafts through the car's vents, a jarring contrast to the tension inside.

"The company Tyler's talking about? It's called Blackwood Realty, not Blackwood Industries," Mason explains. "They're a massive private equity firm, and yeah, they've been involved in some controversial urban development projects."

My mind reels as I process this information. We pass the ornate facade of the Petit Palais, its golden gates gleaming in the moonlight. A group of laughing tourists spills out of a nearby brasserie, the clinking of their champagne glasses barely audible over the purr of the car's engine.

"But...but they sound so similar," I stammer, feeling a cold knot of dread forming in my stomach.

Mason nods, his expression grim. "Exactly. It's an easy mistake to make, especially if you're not familiar with the business world. Realty, Industries, but both Blackwood...to an outsider, they probably sound like the same company."

We turn onto a smaller street, the grand buildings giving way to charming sidewalk cafes and intimate wine bars. A street artist is capturing the scene in watercolors, his brush dancing across the paper in fluid strokes.

"So Tyler just...jumped to conclusions?" I ask, my voice small.

Mason's hand leaves the wheel, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The gentle gesture is at odds with the frustration evident in his voice. "It looks that way. He probablyheard about Blackwood's projects, made the connection to my last name, and assumed the worst without bothering to verify anything."

We pull up to the grand entrance of the Ritz, the hotel's facade glowing warmly against the night sky. A uniformed valet approaches as Mason brings the car to a stop.

My mind reels as I try to process everything Mason has just told me. Could it really all be a misunderstanding? Did I flee based on false information?

As the valet opens my door, I hesitate, unsure if I should get out. Mason comes around and offers his hand. His eyes are intense, searching my face.

"Harper," he says softly. "I know you're confused right now. But please, come upstairs with me. Let's talk this through."

I bite my lip, wavering. I feel like a piece of shit. I jumped to conclusions too and left him for no reason.

With a shaky breath, I place my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, warm and familiar.

We move through the opulent lobby in silence, the plush carpet muffling our footsteps. In the elevator, Mason stands close, his presence both comforting and overwhelming. The air feels charged between us.

When we enter the suite, I'm struck anew by its luxury—the silk drapes, the crystal chandeliers, the sprawling view of Paris twinkling beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. It's a far cry from Tyler's cramped garret.

Mason pours us both a drink, handing me a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. I take a sip, welcoming the burn.

"Harper," he begins, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry for how I acted earlier. Seeing you run off with Tyler...it made me crazy. The thought of losing you?—"

He breaks off, jaw clenching. When he continues, his voice is raw with emotion.

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