The Billionaire’s Untamed Obsession

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV

I pressed my back as hard as I could against the cold, metallic wall of the elevator, but the morning rush in the Reykjavík–Copenhagen Corridor was unforgiving. The hearing at the city council had just wrapped, and the building was teeming with developers, lawyers, and frantic consultants. A group of men in heavy wool coats crowded in, their sheer bulk squeezing me further into the corner. I felt the intrusive heat of someone’s shoulder pressing against mine, and for a second, a flicker of panic rose in my chest. I felt my hips brush against someone behind me, and I stiffened, my breath hitching in the cramped space.

Just as the embarrassment began to prickle at my skin, a sudden, solid presence moved. I looked back and found myself staring into the sharp, glacial features of Zonrik Zartholm. He hadn't said a word, but he had shifted his large frame, using his own body as a physical barrier to separate me from the other men. He braced his hands on the wall on either side of my head, creating a small, private sanctuary within the chaos of the lift. It was an unexpectedly protective gesture, one that felt jarringly gentlemanly coming from a man who spent his days planning the destruction of my life’s work.

But the posture was dangerously ambiguous. I was boxed in, practically trapped against his broad chest. The scent of his sandalwood cologne and the crisp air of the Jutland coast clung to him, filling my senses. I could almost hear the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart.

Damn it! I thought, my pulse beginning to gallop like a spooked colt. Elín, why are you so useless? It’s just proximity. He’s a land developer, not a savior. Do you really have to let your heart speed up like this?

I kept my eyes glued to the digital floor display, watching the numbers descend. I prayed for the elevator to hit the ground floor before I lost my composure entirely. It was peak hour; the elevator groaned as it stopped on several floors, but it was already at capacity. No one else could get in, but the existing crowd only seemed to press closer, forcing me back another inch.

The heat of Zonrik’s breath fanned across the sensitive skin of my nape. The warmth made my skin tingle, sending a traitorous shiver down my spine. In the oppressive silence of the lift, my mind betrayed me, flashing back to that night in Copenhagen years ago—the night I had tried so hard to bury. The memory of his touch, so different then, made me realize with a jolt of electricity that I had known the weight of his body long before today.

The stale air and the sudden rush of memory made me restless. I shifted, trying to find a pocket of air, but a low, hoarse command vibrated near my ear.

"Don’t move!"

"What?" I looked up, startled.

Zonrik’s brow was furrowed in a tight, pained line. His jaw was set so hard I thought his teeth might crack. He looked as though he were enduring some intense internal struggle. Then, I felt it—a sudden, rigid tension pressing against me. He tried to retreat, his eyes darkening with a mixture of frustration and something much more primal, but in the crowded car, there was nowhere to go. In an instant, the reality of what he was enduring hit me.

My face turned a violent shade of crimson. I snapped my head down, staring at his silk tie, cursing him silently. Zonrik Zartholm, you stinking, arrogant rogue! I didn't dare breathe, let alone move again, until the chime finally signaled the lobby.

It felt as though a century had passed before the doors slid open. I didn't wait for a polite exit; I bolted, weaving through the crowd to reach the crisp air outside. I stayed several paces ahead of him as we walked toward the black Bentley. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. Is this a crime? I wondered wildly. Can I sue the billionaire for emotional battery?

"Elín!"

His voice stopped me just as Kasper, his driver, was opening the door. I turned slowly, trying to look composed. Zonrik walked up to me, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He looked uncharacteristically awkward, clearing his throat and glancing at the looming skyscrapers of the Reykjavík–Copenhagen Corridor.

"Ahem. You did a decent job with the council questions today," he said, his voice regaining its usual clipped, professional edge. "The data held up. I’m granting you three days of leave. Go back to your animals."

I stared at him blankly. My brain was a fog of confusion. What does he mean? Is this a reward for the environmental report, or an apology for what just happened in the elevator?

"It’s getting late. Let’s get back to the office so you can wrap up," he added, coughing into his hand before sliding into the back seat.

I bit my lip and climbed into the front next to Kasper. I didn't want to be anywhere near him. The drive back to Zartholm Global Holdings was stifling. Every time I glanced in the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of him—the man who had held me in the dark three years ago and held me in the light today. My face wouldn't stop burning.

The moment we arrived, I fled. I ignored his presence and hurried to my workspace. Almost immediately, Ala Lind and the rest of the staff gathered around, their faces glowing with relief.

"Congratulations, Elín! Word reached us—the bid was successful! The Haven Sanctuary is safe for now!" Ala cheered, clapping her hands.

I forced a polite smile, though my stomach was still doing somersaults. "It was a team effort. The environmental data was solid."

Ala patted my shoulder, her eyes misty. "Elín, thank you. Truly. If we’d lost this contract, I don't know what I would have done. I was so sure I’d be fired."

"Don't say that. You’ve been at the sanctuary longer than anyone. You’re family," I said, trying to ground myself.

Before I could say more, Gert Holm, the site foreman, stepped into the room. "Elín, Mr. Zartholm wants to see you in the Sky Residence office. Now."

My heart sank. What now? I walked toward the private elevator, my mind racing. Had I missed a signature? Was there a problem with the trust?

When I entered the penthouse office, the air felt thick with a different kind of tension. Zonrik was standing behind his desk, his face contorted in an expression of pure, cold fury. I felt my own temper rise to meet his. I had worked eighteen-hour days for this man; I didn't deserve this look.

"Mr. Zartholm, you asked for me?" I stood my ground, refusing to be intimidated.

"Elín," he began, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper. "Do not think for one second that just because we shared a night years ago, you can use it to seduce me or influence my business decisions. I am not a man who can be manipulated by a well-timed reminder of the past."

I was floored. The sheer arrogance of the statement made my blood boil. I stepped forward, slamming my hand onto the mahogany desk. "Mr. Zartholm, I have no idea what delusional world you’re living in, but I have no interest in seducing you. If you were the last man on this earth, I would still prefer the company of my rescued foxes!"

Zonrik snorted, a harsh, cynical sound. "I despise hypocrisy, Elín. Especially when the evidence is staring me in the face."

"Hypocrisy? What evidence?" I shouted. "The elevator was an accident! I didn't ask for the crowd!"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached into his desk drawer and threw a small, pink object onto the desk. It landed between us like a grenade.

I froze. It was a pair of pink, disposable lace underwear.

My brain stalled. My heart stopped. Oh, God. I had been living out of this office for a week. I’d bought a pack of disposables because I couldn't go home to do laundry. I remembered taking a quick shower in his private lounge this morning before the hearing. In my exhausted rush to dress and hide from Alma, I must have dropped them in the marble tub or behind the vanity.

The silence in the room was deafening. Zonrik watched me, his expression full of mocking disgust. He clearly thought I’d left them there as a "calling card"—a pathetic attempt to stake a claim on his private space.

I wanted to vanish. I wanted the earth to swallow me, the Zartholm building, and my entire existence. I felt my face reach a temperature that shouldn't be biologically possible. With a sudden, desperate movement, I lunged forward, snatched the pink lace off the desk, and stuffed it deep into my pocket.

"Mr. Zartholm," I said, my voice shaking as I tried to summon every ounce of dignity I had left. "This is... an unfortunate coincidence. I’ve been working here for six days straight. I took a shower. I was in a hurry. I am not a temptress; I am a tired veterinarian who forgot her trash."

"An accident?" He leaned forward, his eyes boring into mine. "You expect me to believe you 'accidentally' left your intimates in my private quarters?"

"Yes! Because not everyone spends their life thinking about sex and power moves, Zonrik! Some of us just want to go home and sleep!" I was shouting now, my voice cracking. "I didn't want to seduce you. I wanted to save the birds!"

"I hope for your sake it was an accident," he said, though his gaze softened just a fraction, lingering on the flushed line of my throat. "I have a strict policy against ambiguous relationships with employees."

"Perfect," I snapped, straightening my back and turning toward the door. "Because I have a strict policy against arrogant billionaires who think the world revolves around their bedroom. I’m taking my leave. Don't call me."

I marched out of the office, my spine stiff with pride even as my soul withered with shame. I walked straight past Ala and the others, ignoring their curious glances. I took the pink underwear out in the hallway and shoved it into a trash can with the force of a professional pitcher.

I drove home to my cottage near Hvalfjörður in a trance. The moment I crossed the threshold, the silence of the sanctuary enveloped me. I collapsed onto my bed, not even botherng to take off my shoes. I slept for twenty-four hours straight.

When I finally woke, the sun was streaming through the windows. I felt human again, though the memory of the pink underwear still made me groan into my pillow. I reached for my phone and saw thirty-eight missed calls.

All of them were from Magnús Einarsson.

I frowned, sitting up. Magnús was usually so composed. I hit the redial button immediately.

"Elín! Thank God," Magnús’s voice came through, thick with relief. "I’ve been calling for a day and a night. I thought something had happened at the council meeting. I thought Mack Sr. had done something."

"I’m fine, Magnús," I said, my voice raspy from sleep. "I was just... exhausted. I slept through the world. The bid was successful. The land is safe for now."

I heard him exhale, a long, shaky sound. "That’s incredible news. Truly. You’ve worked so hard for this, Elín."

"I have," I agreed, feeling a warmth in my chest at his genuine care.

"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to something more hopeful. "Since the crisis is over and you’re on leave... would you consider letting me take you to dinner tonight? I’ve asked before, but there was always a developer at the gate. No business, no Zartholms. Just us."

I hesitated. I looked at the quiet cottage, then at the calendar. I was tired of fighting. I was tired of being the "Guardian." I wanted to be a woman who went to dinner with a kind man who knew about biology instead of boardrooms.

"I’d like that, Magnús. I really would."

"Six o'clock? I’ll pick you up," he said, his voice bright with joy.

"I'll be ready."

I hung up, staring at the screen. For the first time in a week, I didn't think about the Zartholm Global Holdings building. But as I stood up to get ready, I caught the scent of sandalwood on the jacket I’d worn home—Zonrik’s scent. My heart gave a traitorous little kick. I shoved the jacket into the laundry bin and turned toward the shower, determined to wash away every trace of the man who had turned my world upside down.