Escaping My Cold And Jealous CEO

The heavy bass of the lounge music vibrated through the soles of Alexandrea's boots, traveling up her legs and settling as a dull ache in her chest.

She sat at the neon-lit bar, her eyes locked on the massive flat-screen television mounted above the top-shelf liquor.

The screen flashed with high-definition images of Barron Santana.

He looked exactly as he always did-impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit, his jaw sharp, his ice-blue eyes staring blankly at the flashing cameras. Standing next to him was Cheslie Schroeder, a socialite with a flawless smile, her hand resting on his chest. A massive diamond ring sparkled on her finger. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen read: Santana CEO Announces Engagement.

Alexandrea's fingers tightened around her whiskey glass. Her knuckles turned stark white.

She stared at the screen until her eyes burned. The air in her lungs felt like thick mud. She tipped her head back and swallowed the amber liquid in one harsh gulp. The alcohol burned a path down her throat, settling like a hot coal in her empty stomach.

She slammed the empty glass down onto the sticky surface of the bar. She raised two fingers at the bartender.

The bartender looked at her, his eyes dropping to the three empty glasses already lined up in front of her. He hesitated, but he grabbed the bottle and poured another round.

The high-proof alcohol was already working its way into her bloodstream. The edges of the room began to blur. The neon lights smeared into long, colorful streaks.

A man in a cheap, overly tight suit slid into the empty stool beside her. He smelled like stale smoke and cheap mints.

"Let me get that for you, sweetheart," the man said.

His hand clamped down on Alexandrea's bare shoulder. His fingers were clammy.

Alexandrea's body reacted before her brain did. Five years of elite bodyguard training flared to life. Her muscles coiled. She reached up, grabbed his wrist, and twisted hard, stepping off the stool to use his momentum against him.

But her feet didn't move the way they were supposed to. The whiskey had severed the connection between her brain and her limbs. She stumbled, her boot catching on the metal footrest of the bar stool.

The man laughed. It was a wet, greasy sound. He used her loss of balance to wrap his thick arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest.

"Feisty," he muttered, his hot breath hitting her neck.

"Bastard," Alexandrea hissed.

She pulled her left arm back and threw a punch aimed straight at his jaw.

It was slow. Too slow. The man easily caught her fist in his large hand, squeezing her knuckles until they ground together. Alexandrea gritted her teeth against the pain, her vision swimming.

Across the dark room, in the VIP section, Cassidy Gross sat sinking into a leather booth.

He held a martini glass loosely in his hand. The client across from him was talking about quarterly projections, but Cassidy wasn't listening. His dark eyes scanned the crowded bar, bored and restless.

His gaze stopped on the woman struggling at the bar.

He recognized the dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail. He recognized the tactical pants and the plain black t-shirt. It was Alexandrea. His junior from college. The girl who used to throw guys twice her size onto the mat in the campus gym.

Cassidy's bored expression vanished. He slammed his martini glass onto the table. The glass cracked.

He stood up, cutting off the client mid-sentence, and walked straight toward the bar.

He moved fast. He reached the man in the cheap suit, grabbed the back of his collar, and yanked backward with all his weight.

The man let go of Alexandrea and stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby table.

"What the hell is your problem?" the man yelled, raising his fists.

Before the man could take a step forward, two massive men in dark suits stepped out from behind Cassidy. They formed a solid wall of muscle between Cassidy and the man. The man took one look at the bodyguards, swallowed hard, and backed away into the crowd.

Cassidy ignored him. He shrugged off his custom Tom Ford jacket and wrapped it tightly around Alexandrea's shaking shoulders.

Alexandrea blinked up at him. Her eyes were unfocused, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol.

"Cassidy?" she mumbled. Her words slurred together.

"I've got you," Cassidy said.

He wrapped his arm around her waist. He didn't ask questions. He just pulled her against his side and guided her through the dense crowd, out the heavy glass doors of the lounge.

The cold autumn air of Manhattan hit Alexandrea's face. She shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around herself.

They stopped next to a Midnight Blue Porsche 911 parked illegally at the curb.

"Give me your address," Cassidy said, opening the passenger door. "I'm taking you home."

Alexandrea shook her head violently. "No. No home. Can't go home."

Her voice cracked. She looked like a terrified animal.

Cassidy let out a heavy breath. He looked at her pale face and the tears pooling in her eyes.

"Alright," he said softly. "Get in."

He helped her into the low leather seat, shut the door, and walked around to the driver's side. If she wouldn't go home, he was taking her to his hotel.