His Wicked Obsession (Archer and Virginia) novel Chapter 219

Later that same night.

Zachary approached his boss's desk, gingerly sliding a thick manila envelope over the polished mahogany. Archer was still buried in late-night paperwork.

"Mr. Vanderbilt. The files you requested."

Archer paused. Laying down his fountain pen, he hesitated for a fraction of a second before tearing open the seal.

Inside were a stack of incredibly high-definition photographs.

The first shot: Valentin gallantly holding open a car door for Virginia.

The second shot: The two of them seated across from one another at a candlelit table. Valentin was staring at her with unabashed adoration, while she laughed softly at whatever he was saying.

The third shot was devastating: Valentin's arm was wrapped intimately around her shoulder, his lips hovering mere inches from her earlobe. It looked like he was whispering sweet nothings, or leaning in for a kiss...

And there was a fourth... then a fifth...

Archer stared at the third photo for a horrifyingly long time.

Standing across the desk, Zachary watched as his boss's large hand slowly turned into a vice. The edges of the glossy photo crinkled violently before Archer completely crushed it into a tight, mangled ball.

"Boss..."

"Get out."

Archer's voice was deathly quiet—so unnervingly soft it stripped away any trace of humanity.

Zachary's heart lurched into his throat. He practically sprinted backward out of the office in blind panic.

In all his years, he had never seen his icy boss completely lose control. It was genuinely terrifying.

The following day.

Looking utterly ravaged, Archer marched back into Virginia’s clinic. Only this time, he demanded an audience with Kian.

Kian sat in his consultation room, dressed sharply in his lab coat, a rapidly cooling Americano resting on his desk.

Seeing who barged through the door, he raised a mocking eyebrow.

"Mr. Vanderbilt? What an incredibly rare honor. Please, take a seat."

Archer gave a barely perceptible grimace before sinking into the chair opposite him.

His posture was impeccably rigid, back painfully straight, his dress shirt buttoned to the very top in a desperate display of control.

Aside from the brutal, bruised shadows under his eyes, he looked like a machine.

"Insomnia. I need a session, Dr. Shaw."

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