Owned By Mr. Obsession

Camilla

“Say it again,” a deep voice growls against my ear, rough and commanding.

My lips part, breath stuttering. “Please…”

The word barely leaves me before his hand slides higher, fingertips grazing the edge of silk stretched tight across my thigh. The fabric whispers against my skin, betraying the heat already pooling low in my body.

“Louder,” he demands, his tone dangerous, like pleasure and punishment tangled together.

My nails dig into the armrest of the velvet chair, desperate to hold on, desperate to keep control, but control has never been mine. Not tonight. Not here. Not with him.

I can fake anything—smiles, laughter, even orgasms—but right now, the mask is suffocating me.

The Stratford Hotel reeks of money so new it still smells sharp, like fresh ink drying on contracts no one bothered to read, like crystal glass untouched by anything except white-gloved hands. It doesn’t just host the elite—it pretends to polish them. Every surface here is calculated perfection. Marble floors gleam like mirrors waiting to betray you. Chandeliers hang overhead like frozen waterfalls, too bright, too sharp, too flawless. Even the staff move like ghosts rehearsed to perfection, carrying trays of champagne that sparkle like liquid bribes.

It’s beautiful. It’s suffocating.

My father adores it. Sutton Media’s charity galas are nothing more than peacock displays disguised as generosity, and The Stratford has become his latest stage. Tonight is no different than the last dozen, except the wallpaper is brighter, the music louder, the guest list cut shorter so it feels exclusive enough to be bragged about later.

The silk of my gown slides over my thighs as I shift in my chair, cold against bare skin, deliberate in its provocation. The dress isn’t designed for comfort. It’s a weapon. A reminder that Sutton daughters must allure, never surrender. We’re trained to tempt, never touch.

“Intrigue, Camila. Not indulgence.” My mother’s voice echoes inside my head, smooth and clipped, strangling in its elegance.

A Sutton daughter smiles at strangers, not secrets. A Sutton daughter obeys the map her family drew long before she was born.

The champagne in my glass sparkles beneath the chandeliers, bubbles racing upward only to die the moment they break the surface. I sip because it’s expected, and the fizz dies on my tongue just as easily as it disappears in the glass.

Empty. Brief. Meaningless.

Exactly like me.

Across the ballroom, Clarissa’s laugh rings out, perfectly pitched, perfectly false. Her fiancé, Nate Ashburgh, already holds her hand like property, already flaunts her like a new car. Clarissa plays her role with ease—owned and displayed, but never admitting it.

Then my mother’s gaze cuts across the crowd. A silent blade pinning me exactly where she wants me.

Smile.

I obey. My lips curve into a flawless shape, practiced until my cheeks ache. It looks real. It feels like nothing.

And then I see him.

Prescott Caldera. My father’s dream. My future nightmare. Future senator. Future husband. A man with a face built for campaigns and a heart built for convenience. His roses arrive weekly, too perfect, too sterile, as if love can be grown in greenhouses and shipped in boxes. He is everything my father promised me. Everything I never wanted.

“You’ll be taken care of,” my father told me, his tone leaving no space for rebellion. “You’ll be a senator’s wife.”

As if that title could choke down the emptiness pressing at my throat.

The music swells, violins plucking beauty from silence, but it all feels hollow. Laughter, perfume, polished conversations—all of it staged, all of it suffocating.

And suddenly I can’t breathe.

I push back my chair too fast, the screech of wood against marble slicing through the ballroom. Heads turn. Whispers swell. My mother’s glare could draw blood.

I don’t care.

I take another flute of champagne from a passing waiter, ignoring the sharp arch of my mother’s brow.

The lounge is darker, quieter, as if it was built for sins the ballroom pretends don’t exist. Heavy velvet curtains choke the light, leather chairs sink under whispered confessions, and the air smells of whiskey, smoke, and regret.

Here, finally, my shoulders drop. My spine curves. The posture my mother drilled into me breaks, and I lean into the chair like it’s the first real breath I’ve had all night.

I drink. One swallow, two. The bubbles burn my throat. For the first time tonight, the pain feels honest.

The glass dangles loose in my hand, empty, useless, like me. My head tips back, lashes fluttering shut. Just for a second, I let myself stop. No smiles, no masks, no Camila Sutton the perfect daughter.

And that’s when I feel it.

Heat.

Not warmth. Not comfort. Heat that coils tight and sharp. Heat that watches.

I know the difference. I’ve been looked at my whole life, rated, judged, dressed in compliments I never asked for. But this gaze? This isn’t admiration. This is possession. This is the weight of someone studying me, stripping me without a single touch.

I open my eyes.

He’s there.

Sitting across from me, legs spread, elbows hooked on the armrests like the whole lounge was built just for him. I don’t know how I missed him. Maybe because he doesn’t belong to the room. Maybe because the shadows bent to make space for him.

He doesn’t look like someone you meet.

He looks like someone you survive.

Tall, carved with edges too sharp to soften. His shirt black. His slacks black. His presence darker still. And his eyes—God—his eyes are oceans at night, endless and merciless. Eyes that have drowned people before and didn’t look away while they sank.

And he’s staring at me.

Not politely. Not briefly. Openly. Vulgar in his refusal to blink, to glance away, to pretend he’s civilized.

Tattooed hands rest against the armrests, fingers flexing lazily. Not delicate lines or pretty designs. Brutal ink. Warnings carved into flesh. Stories you don’t ask about unless you want to bleed for the answer.

My breath snags. He doesn’t flinch. Neither do I.

The air stretches tight between us, intimate and sharp. My instincts scream what my body already knows.

Danger.

Every woman knows the feel of it. But this isn’t fear. This isn’t flight.

It’s fascination. It’s fire.

A whisper curls inside my head: Run.

But another, darker voice answers: What if I don’t?

His gaze slides down, slow, deliberate. My shoulders. My neckline. The split of silk at my thighs. He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t hunger. He measures. A predator charting weakness.

My fingers tighten on the glass. I lift my chin, mask snapping back into place. I give him the polished look I give every man who thinks my skin is theirs to own.

But then his mouth curves.

Not a smile.

A warning.

And I know… with a certainty that chills my bones and heats my blood… I’ve already lost whatever game this is.