The Billionaire’s Obsession

Chapter 6

MIRANDA'S POV

The word "run" echoed in my ears, but it wasn't an invitation. It was a taunt. A challenge thrown by a man who knew I had nowhere to go. My wrist still throbbed from his grip, a phantom ache that mirrored the chaotic rhythm of my heart. Nicholas Stephen. The name, once just a whisper in the city's underbelly, was now a brand burned onto my psyche. He didn't just know about Professor Langley; he knew about Bobst Library, about my pathetic attempts to escape the crushing weight of my own life by burying myself in overdue books and forgotten theories.

I scrambled off the bed, the luxurious silk sheets a cruel mockery of my newfound captivity. My dress, a simple black shift that usually felt like armor, now seemed flimsy and exposed. My mind, usually a precision instrument, was a whirlwind of panicked thoughts, each one colliding with the next. He knew. He knew everything. My trust fund, my "rebellion" of working at the café, my thesis. It wasn't just a casual observation; it was the meticulous detail of a predator.

He watched me, unmoving, a dark, dangerous statue of male perfection. The water still dripped from his hair, tracing paths along the hard lines of his chest, disappearing into the low-slung towel. He wasn't just enjoying the view; he was savoring my discomfort, my fear.

"You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the opulent room. It wasn't a question. It was a decree.

I tightened my grip on the dress, my knuckles white. "I have a class." My voice, to my own ears, sounded weak, childish.

He laughed, the sound as sharp and unyielding as a broken shard of glass. "Do you think I care about your academic pursuits, Miranda? You're here because I want you here."

"And what exactly do you want?" I demanded, my voice gaining a desperate edge I couldn't control. My carefully constructed world, built on logic and intellect, was crumbling around me.

He finally moved, a slow, deliberate approach that had my instincts screaming. My body tensed, ready to bolt, but there was nowhere to go. He stopped directly in front of me, his scent—clean soap and something uniquely masculine and dangerous—enveloping me. He reached out, and for a terrifying second, I thought he would touch me again. Instead, his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with a disconcerting tenderness.

"I want to see how far you'll break," he murmured, his eyes, dark and intense, piercing through me. "And then, I want to see if I can put you back together."

A shiver, cold and unwelcome, traced its way down my spine. This wasn't about sex, or even about power in the way I understood it. This was something far more sinister, a psychological game played by a man who saw humans as chess pieces. Nicholas Stephen didn't just want to win; he wanted to dismantle me, piece by painstaking piece.

"You're insane," I whispered, the words barely audible.

His smile was a slow, predatory curve. "Perhaps. But I'm also the only one who can show you what you truly are, Miranda. Stripped of your books and your pretty theories. What's left when everything you thought you knew is a lie?"

He turned then, walking towards a massive, dark wood desk I hadn't noticed before, and picked up a phone. He punched in a number, his gaze still fixed on me.

"Cancel her tutorial," he said into the phone, his voice calm, utterly devoid of emotion. "And her thesis meeting. Ms. Coleman won't be attending." He paused, listening. "No, she's not ill. She's simply... indisposed."

He hung up, his eyes locking with mine again. My breath caught in my throat. He wasn't just challenging me; he was severing my ties to the outside world, one by one. The library, the cafe, Professor Langley. My life was being systematically dismantled, and I was powerless to stop it.

"Now," he said, leaning back against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest, "let's talk about what you will be doing today."