The CEO's Forbidden Fling - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and sank to my knees, my voice trembling as I begged for mercy.
I’d done my homework before tonight—never fight back, and make damn sure I had proof.
"You worthless bitch!" he snarled, his face twisted in rage. "How dare you say I’m worse than that old bastard Vincent Lowell? I’ll make you regret it!"
My pleading only made him angrier. His boot slammed into my stomach—once, twice, again—until I coughed up blood.
The pain was sharp, searing, but beneath it, a dark satisfaction pulsed through me.
Gritting my teeth, I staggered up when he wasn’t looking and snatched my phone from the shadows.
"Had enough?" he panted, collapsing onto the edge of the bed to light a cigarette.
"Y-yes! Please, no more!" I played my part perfectly—wide-eyed, shaking, the perfect victim.
"Go get me a beer." He took a long drag, kicking his feet up on the wobbly apartment table.
Cigarettes and beer—his usual routine before forcing himself on me.
"Right away," I whispered, hunching my shoulders as I slipped out the door.
The second it clicked shut, I bolted downstairs, jumped into the first cab I saw, and sped straight to the police station.
I told them everything. Every ugly detail.
Then I handed over the video—the one I’d just recorded.
He was smart. Without hard evidence, I’d never win. Worse, I’d end up buried.
That’s why I needed footage of him losing control.
The police moved fast. They raided his apartment that night and hauled him away in cuffs.
By morning, Vincent Lowell was in custody too.
The office exploded. Whispers about the boss spread like wildfire.
But I couldn’t afford to lose focus.
The video would nail him for assault, sure.
But I’d accused him and Vincent of playing me—twisting my emotions.
Problem was, every encounter had been technically consensual. No money stolen. Legally, they’d danced just outside the line.
Assault charges? A slap on the wrist. They’d walk away barely scathed.
I needed more. And I needed it fast.
I started digging, chatting up coworkers, listening for any scrap of dirt on the boss.
What I found turned my stomach.
Nearly every woman in that office had a story—harassment, coercion, exploitation.
We all wanted him gone. But no one had proof.
"There is one key witness," Yvonne Lawrence from accounting admitted hesitantly.
She was the company’s longest-serving employee—a divorced single mother who carried herself with quiet grace.
"Yvonne, this is life or death!" I gripped her arm. "What could be worse than staying silent now?"
The others backed me up, voices rising.
Finally, Yvonne exhaled and gave us the lead we’d been desperate for.