The Masked Obsession

Trigger Warning: This is a dark romance and may contain sensitive themes, including voyeurism and stalking, obsession, emotional coercion, power imbalance, ambiguous consent, explicit sexual content with dominance dynamics and psychological intensity, trauma, physical and psychological abuse, and emotional and/or physical violence.

Author’s Note:

This is not a fairytale.

Here, the lines between right and wrong blur.

If you're looking for comfort, this story may not be for you.

But if you're ready to dive in—and lose yourself—welcome to the darkness.

You’ve been warned.

Read with awareness.

Or get lost, like she did.

✽✽✽

Prologue

In the midst of darkness and the white, frozen void, a single flame pulses: the lights of the small chalet at the foot of the mountain.

They capture my attention.

I try to ignore them.

I can't.

The light is persistent.

Alluring.

Wrong.

Silence.

Wine.

Boredom.

It's all I have.

The light remains, right where it shouldn't be.

But the distance doesn't let me see the guest.

The binoculars are in the drawer.

I stare at the desk.

On it, the computer is still warm.

I broke my promise not to work on the holiday.

I give in and walk back to it.

Set the glass on the table and open the second drawer.

The binoculars weigh in my hands as I return to the window.

What am I doing?

No...

What is the guest doing?

My eyes adjust to the lenses.

The image sharpens.

Then I see her.

Alone.

Unhurried.

Unafraid.

Pale, bare skin.

Curves sprawled across the couch.

Fingers gliding between her legs, as if nothing around her existed.

As if no one could see her.

But I see her.

Every movement.

Every soundless moan.

I swallow hard.

My breath quickens.

My blood heats.

It’s wrong.

I know that.

But I can’t stop.

For a moment, I lose control.

Everything fades.

Even the weight of the past.

There’s nothing left.

Only... need.

Raw. Wild.

And I let it consume me.

✽

I shouldn’t have watched.

Not for that long.

Not the way I did.

But there was something about her.

Something that kept me from looking away.

And once again, the light was on.

A flame in the darkness of the night.

Warm.

Calling me.

Irresistible.

And I couldn’t resist.

But this time... watching her wouldn’t be enough.

✽✽✽

Chapter 1: Obsession Awakens

"You came to me thinking you’d be the one asking questions, but now, I’m the one who wants answers."

EVANGELINE

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves—still carried by the echo of my heels on the sidewalk steps.

It’s so cold I can see the white mist from my breath. It fades as I reach the last steps.

As I reach the top, I stop and stare at the imposing building rising before me—like a tower of black mirrored glass, reflecting the city on its dark, flawless surface.

But something stands out against the black: a large silver V gleams on the façade. Below it, in equally bold silver letters, it reads: Volkov Industries—The power behind the world you see.

Reading the slogan alone is enough to send a shiver through me. Or maybe it’s just the bone-chilling cold of late January.

Pulling my black coat tighter around me, I stare at my reflection in the dark glass. What kind of outfit do you wear to interview a cold, reserved billionaire CEO?

I have no idea—and it doesn’t really matter, since I shouldn’t even be here. Serves me right. I could’ve just said no to Charles, but here I am, about to interview a man who must be, at the very least, detestable.

How can you hate someone so quickly? An hour and twenty minutes, if I count the twenty-minute cab ride from the publishing house to here.

That’s how long I had to read about Aleksander Volkov. In short: born in Russia, thirty-two years old, described as brilliant, reserved, strategic, and inaccessible.

Actually, I added the "inaccessible" part after Charles’s last words before he practically shoved me into the cab: “Remember: he agreed to speak to us as a courtesy. Just ask the basic questions—he hates beating around the bush. And avoid anything too personal. And for God’s sake, don’t try to figure him out. You’ve got ten minutes, not a lifetime.”

It’s more than clear he’s not the type who gives interviews or smiles for the camera. I think that was even underlined somewhere in the file Tess put together about him—and that he doesn’t answer questions he doesn’t want to.

She also scribbled the word intimidating in the corners of the pages a few times. Which isn’t exactly helping my nerves right now.

Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—she didn’t include a single photo of him either. Only numbers. Growth. Power. Achievements. Nothing personal. Nothing human.

So even after reading the entire file she put together about him, everything still sounded like a synonym for arrogant, controlling, and detestable.

What was only reinforced by one of the rumors Tess had listed: a possible connection between his family and Eastern European mafia networks.

Nothing confirmed, of course—just speculation. Still, it was enough to make me uneasy. And now, it’s making me wonder where the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

You could’ve just said no, Evangeline. But no—you had to help your best friend and your boss. Because they trust you.

I need to stop trying to help everyone. That’s exactly how I ended up with two positions.

But now, there’s no way out.

So, clutching my bag against my body, I take one more deep breath and start walking toward the building’s entrance.

✽

“Miss Monroe?” the blonde behind the desk calls out, making me rise from the sofa.

Sinclair. I correct her mentally, trying to ignore the fact that she clearly didn’t listen when I explained the situation earlier.

“Mr. Volkov will see you now. Please, follow me,” she says, stepping out from behind the desk.

I follow her, feeling my heart begin to race.

Looking at her—just as flawless as the space around us—and then at my own outfit, I suddenly miss the coat and scarf I left at reception.

Wearing only black dress pants and a white button-down shirt, I feel too plain. Maybe because, when I woke up this morning, I had no idea I’d end up here.

About to interview an intimidating billionaire.

Stopping beside the door, the blonde opens it for me.

I swallow hard and take a breath, gathering courage.

You’ve got this, Evangeline. This is nothing compared to your real job.

And so, I step in.

My footsteps echo across the polished, dark marble floor, too loud in the silence that dominates the massive room—it seems to take up the entire floor.

Everything around me feels cold and immaculate. Black and gray furniture, walls just as dark. The sparse decor is just as sober as the rest.

Shifting my gaze from the large conference table on the left, I glance quickly past the floor-to-ceiling windows that take up the entire wall, offering a privileged view of nearly all of Manhattan.

Then, to the right—behind a massive black desk and beneath a silver V like the one on the building’s façade—Mr. Volkov is seated, his attention fixed on the computer, as if my presence were nothing more than an inconvenience.

That attitude alone is enough to spark irritation in me, so I clear my throat to get his attention.

Without haste, he lifts his head, and his eyes—intense and icy blue—lock onto me. And in that instant, I wish I could turn back time to before they were on me.

For some reason, he seems frozen for a moment. Then he blinks.

“Mr. Volkov.” I force my voice out, stepping toward him again.

Without looking away, he remains seated, his eyes moving over my body, carefully analyzing me with each step.

Uncomfortable, I curse Tess mentally for not including a single photo of him in the files, leaving me completely unprepared for this.

That cold, piercing blue gaze is only part of the whole—enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

His dark blond, almost brown hair is slicked back, looking almost excessively neat. His square jaw and firm chin create a sharp line that climbs to his cheekbones, sculpting serious—almost severe—features that reinforce his untouchable image.

I wouldn’t describe him as handsome in the usual sense. No. His beauty isn’t soft. It’s strong and intimidating—capable of inspiring fear and distance. And yet, somehow, still capable of attraction.

When I stop in front of his desk, he finally stands, making me swallow hard. And as I watch him walk around it, I feel a sudden urge to shrink back.

"Miss Monroe."

He extends his hand as he stops in front of me, and his deep voice—unlike any I’ve ever heard—seems to reverberate through my entire body, sending a shiver down my spine.

I hesitate for a second, intimidated not just by his voice, but also by his height—he must be at least twenty centimeters taller than me.

His shoulders are so broad they make him seem even larger in his all-black suit.

And only now, up close, do I realize his eyes are steel-blue—cold as ice, hypnotic.

I blink, trying to return to reality. Then I look at his still-outstretched hand and shake it.

“Sinclair,” I correct, feeling his large hand grip mine firmly.

I try to ignore the strange sensation his touch stirs in me and hold his gaze as long as I can—until I have to look away.

“There was a last-minute change, so Miss Monroe couldn’t come,” I explain. “I’m Evangeline Sinclair.”

He stays silent, studying me with that glacial stare.

“Sit. You have ten minutes, Miss Sinclair,” he says at last, curtly.

As I sit in front of his desk, he moves back behind it without looking away—but he doesn’t sit. He just keeps watching me.

And even as I look down to dig through my bag, I can still feel his gaze pressing down on me.

I hesitate for a moment before pulling out my notepad and pen too, wondering if it might come across as outdated in front of the CEO of one of the world’s most influential tech companies.

But in the end, that’s how I feel most comfortable.

“Shall we begin?” I ask, ready to press record, noticing he’s still watching me.

He nods slowly, like someone who’s decided he’s seen enough, and only then does he sit.

I press the button to start recording, silently reviewing Tess’s first question before speaking it aloud.

“What motivated the creation of Volkov Industries, and how would you define its purpose today?”

I look at him—and it takes no more than a few seconds.

“Lack of control is weakness. We exist to eliminate it. We develop advanced systems to anticipate threats and keep power where it belongs. Our purpose is simple: predict, protect, and dominate. Because in the end, control isn’t a luxury. It’s survival.”

The speed of his answer—like he doesn’t even need to think—and the way he delivers each word with confidence and precision while holding my gaze nearly takes my breath away.

Still, the response feels too concise. So I wait, hoping he’ll say more. But he remains silent, making it clear he’s done.

So I just move on to the next question.

“What is Volkov Industries’ strategy for maintaining its leadership in the global tech landscape?”

“We expand with a clear purpose: to set standards, not follow them. Presence alone isn’t enough. We go where we can lead.”

That’s it?

I keep staring at him. I guess so. Another objective answer. Is he going to respond to all of them like this?

I bet he will. Or maybe I’m boring him.

I skim the list quickly, looking for something that might actually interest him. I pick one but hesitate for a second, worried it might come across as rushed because it’s out of order—still, I ask it anyway.

“How do you handle power?”

I wait—but to my surprise, he remains silent, staring at me like I’ve suddenly grown a second head.

“Turn off the recorder,” he orders suddenly.

“What?”

He looks at the recorder in my hand, then back at me, not even bothering to repeat the order—as if his stare alone were enough. And it is.

“All right.” I stop the recording, confused. “Is there a problem, Mr. Volkov?”

“I assume these questions aren’t yours. Am I right?”

I blink. Was I that bad?

“As I said, there was a change, and I…”

“Is there any question you actually want to ask—one that’s truly relevant, Miss Sinclair?” he cuts me off.

“I’m sorry, I... I was told to stick to what’s most relevant for the magazine.”

“So you’re saying there’s no personal question you want to ask?”

“Well...”

I glance down at the bottom of the page, remembering Tess had added a few suggestions for personal questions.

“Are you… single?” I read the first one, instantly regretting it.

“Give me that,” he orders, impatient, motioning toward the page in my hand.

“But…”

He keeps staring at me, hand outstretched and gaze authoritative—like someone who doesn’t take no for an answer.

Reluctantly, I give him the list.

His eyes scan the page quickly before placing it on the desk. Then his attention shifts back to me.

“Now, is there a question you actually want to ask?”

I don’t understand. What is he trying to do? Is this some kind of test?

It doesn’t matter. I just need him to answer the questions. But truthfully, there’s something that’s been on my mind since I first started reading about him—something that’s only been reinforced by everything he’s said so far.

“Would you say you’re obsessed with control?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring at me in silence. And for a moment, I start to think I may have bothered him.

“I believe your time is up, Miss Sinclair,” he says, breaking the silence. “But don’t worry—you’ll get the answers to those questions. And… if you’re truly interested in hearing the answer to your question—and to others you might have—I’m willing to give them. But only if I’m answering you directly.”

“Mr. Volkov, I appreciate it, but I’m not the one behind this interview. I’m sure Miss Monroe would…”

“No. That offer is for you. I’ll send the responses, and if you change your mind, you can send your own questions.”

“Mr. Volkov…”

“I have a meeting now, Miss Sinclair,” he interrupts, dismissing me.

I nod, a little confused, and begin putting my things away. Once I’m done, I stand.

“Thank you, Mr. Volkov. I’ll be waiting for your responses,” I say.

He rises slowly, reminding me why he’s described as intimidating, then extends his hand.

“And I’ll be waiting for your questions. The real ones,” he says, his blue eyes fixed on me with raw intensity—and something else. A silent challenge.

And suddenly, it feels like there’s something familiar in them. Something that sends a shiver down my spine.

But that’s impossible.

Isn’t it?