Ceo Of My Heart – Episode 61&62
CEO OF MY HEART
Ceo Of My Heart – Episode 61&62
( Love and Lust….)
GENRE : Billionaire/Musical Romance.
®2026 All rights reserved.
No part of this book should be reposted, Copied or distributed without the author’s permission.
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The gunshots exploded—three in rapid succession, deafening, final.
Not her forehead.
Her legs.
Eleanor screamed, collapsing, elegant composure shattered as blood bloomed through her silk trousers. Three precise holes. Knee. Shin. Thigh. She clutched her leg, shrieking, face contorted in agony.
Evelyn was frozen. Staring. Mouth open, no sound coming out.
Leonard stood like Satan himself—gun still smoking, eyes bloody red, a smile playing at his lips that held no humanity. The room smelled of cordite and copper. He took a step toward Eleanor’s writhing form, savoring her screams like music.
“That’s what happens,” he said softly, almost tenderly, “when anyone messes with my Shorty.”
Eleanor’s hand trembled—reaching, desperate. She’d pressed something before the shots. Hidden in her palm.
The emergency button.
Sirens wailed. Footsteps thundered.
The door burst open.
Richard stormed in, face purple with rage, bodyguards flooding past him like black water. He took in the scene in one glance: his wife bleeding, sobbing, the gun in Leonard’s hand.
“Seize him,” Richard roared.
Leonard didn’t resist. Didn’t even look at the guards grabbing his arms, wrenching the gun away, forcing him to his knees. His eyes stayed locked on Eleanor, that demon smile widening as she sobbed into her husband’s chest.
“Beat him,” Eleanor gasped, tears mixing with mascara, blood soaking the floor. “Outside. Where everyone can see. Beat him until he—”
“Eleanor—” Richard started.
“DO IT!” she screamed, voice cracking. “He shot me! He—he was going to kill me!”
Richard’s jaw tightened. He looked at Leonard—kneeling, unrepentant, smiling like a man already in hell and enjoying the warmth.
“Outside,” the President said quietly. “Make it public.”
[HOSPITAL PARKING LOT — MINUTES LATER]
They threw him against the black SUV. Fists followed—gut, ribs, jaw. A baton cracked across his back. He folded, grunting, then straightened. Spat blood onto the asphalt.
Another blow. His knee buckled. He caught himself on the hood, laughing—actually laughing, the sound wet and broken and utterly terrifying.
“Again,” he breathed.
The guards exchanged glances. This wasn’t right. Men broke. Men begged. This man smiled.
They hit harder. Boots to his ribs. Fists to his face. Blood poured from his nose, his mouth, a gash above his eye. He collapsed to his knees, hands braced on the ground, and still—that smile. Growing wider with every impact.
“Is that all?” he rasped, looking up through swollen eyes. “My Shorty hits harder.”
The guards continued giving him what he wanted , more bloody beating .
From afar the reporters and journalist are recording everything . Everything happening now is probably live in every news station.
Some of the reporters are even terrified of Leonard .
Was he normal at all ?
Noah was even held down by some guards cos he was trying to help Leonard who clearly doesn’t need help but redemption .
Dude is actually enjoying the beating.
RUMI’S DUPLEX — LIVING ROOM
The flatscreen TV blared breaking news. Giselle had been lounging on Rumi’s couch, half-listening to Rumi and Vincent’s banter, sipping coffee, still glowing from her award win.
Then she saw it.
Leonard.
On his knees. Surrounded by guards. Blood pouring from his face like a fountain.
The coffee mug slipped from her fingers. Shattered against the marble floor.
“Leo…?” she whispered.
The camera zoomed in—his swollen eyes, that terrifying smile, the baton cracking across his spine. He didn’t flinch. He laughed .
Giselle stopped breathing.
“That’s… that’s Leonard,” Rumi said slowly, standing up. “Giselle, that’s—”
Giselle didn’t hear her.
Something snapped.
She moved like a woman possessed—grabbing her phone, her keys, her jacket, all coordination gone, all reason shattered. She was pure kinetic energy, pure terror, pure madness .
“Giselle!” Vincent grabbed her arm.
“Wait—”
She ripped free with supernatural strength. “LET GO!”
“You’ll get hurt—”
“HE’S GETTING KILLED!” she screamed, voice breaking, tears already streaming. “They’re killing him and he’s smiling —”
She didn’t finish. She was already at the door, barefoot, phone clutched like a weapon, scrolling for Noah’s number with trembling fingers.
Rumi chased after her. “Giselle, stop! Think!”
Giselle whirled, eyes wild, feral, unrecognizable . “He went there for me ,” she hissed. “Eleanor shot me. He went to finish it. And now they’re—”
She choked on a sob, already running.
“GISELLE!” Rumi shouted.
But Giselle was gone.
She burst through the duplex doors, down the elevator, into the street—bare feet slapping concrete, hair flying, award ceremony makeup streaking down her face. People stared. A celebrity melting down in broad daylight.
She didn’t care.
Her thumb finally found Noah’s contact. Ringing. Ringing.
“Pick up, you bastard, pick up—”
“Giselle—” Noah’s voice, strained, distant, sounds of chaos behind him.
“WHERE IS HE?” she shrieked, already flagging down a taxi, not caring that she looked insane, that paparazzi were already snapping photos. “Noah, where the f+k is my Leonard?”
“Hospital parking lot. East wing. But Giselle, you can’t—there’s guards everywhere, the President’s men, it’s a bloodbath—”
She hung up.
Dove into the taxi. “St. Mary’s Hospital. East wing. Now.” She threw cash at the driver—all she had in her wallet. “Drive like your life depends on it.”
The driver looked at her—disheveled, barefoot, eyes red-rimmed and crazy —and decided not to argue.
The car screeched away.
Giselle stared out the window, hands clenched so tight her nails drew blood from her palms. The city blurred. Her mind raced faster than the engine.
He smiled.
While they beat him, he smiled.
For me. All for me.
“Faster,” she whispered. Then screamed it: “FASTER!”
HOSPITAL PARKING LOT
Leonard could barely see anymore. One eye swollen shut, the other a slit of crimson. His ribs were definitely broken. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Existing hurt.
Still, he smiled.
They’d stopped beating him, finally—exhausted, confused, frightened by his lack of fear. He lay against the SUV’s tire, blood pooling beneath him, and hummed something tuneless under his breath.
Richard stood over him, face unreadable. “You’re insane.”
“Devoted,” Leonard corrected, voice barely audible. “There’s a difference.”
Eleanor had been taken inside, screaming about lawsuits and executions. The guards waited for orders, batons dripping.
Then—a car screeched into the lot.
Doors flew open.
And Giselle emerged.
Not the polished award-winner. Not the teasing girlfriend. Something primal. Something that made the guards step back without knowing why.
She saw him—broken, bleeding, smiling through split lips—and the sound that tore from her throat wasn’t human.
“LEO!”
She ran. Past guards. Past Noah’s outstretched hands. Past Richard’s shocked recognition.
Dropped to her knees in the blood. Cradled his ruined face in her hands. “Leo, Leo, look at me, please, please—”
One eye opened. Focused. The smile softened into something almost gentle.
“Shorty,” he breathed. “You came.”
“Of course I came, you idiot, you absolute—” She was crying, sobbing, pressing her forehead to his. “Why didn’t you run? Why didn’t you—”.
“She hurt you,” he said simply. Like it explained everything. Like it was everything.
Giselle’s grief crystallized into something harder. She looked up—at Richard, at the guards, at the cameras still rolling—and her voice carried across the parking lot, clear and deadly:
“You want a monster? You’ve got one.”
She stood, placing herself between Leonard and the guards, arms spread. “Come on,” she challenged, voice steady despite the tears. “Beat me too. Let’s see how that plays on the evening news. Giselle White, MTV award-winning musician, beaten by the President’s thugs while her man bleeds out. Try it. “
Richard stared at her. At the small woman with bare feet and murder in her eyes, protecting a madman like he was worth more than diamonds.
“Stand down,” he said quietly.
The guards hesitated.
“I said STAND DOWN!”
They backed away.
Giselle didn’t relax. She turned, dropping back to Leonard’s side, pressing her jacket to his worst wounds. “Ambulance,” she ordered. “Now. Or I start singing, and trust me, you don’t want that audience.”
Noah finally broke free, rushing over with paramedics in tow. “Giselle—”
“Help me get him up,” she commanded. “Gently. Noah, if he dies, I burn everything you love to the ground. Understand?”
Noah understood perfectly.
They lifted Leonard—conscious, still smiling, hand finding hers and gripping tight—and loaded him into the waiting ambulance.
Giselle climbed in beside him, never letting go.
As the doors closed, Leonard’s voice, barely a whisper: “Told you… you’d hit harder.”
She laughed through her tears, pressing kisses to his bloody knuckles. “Shut up, you psychotic bastard. Just shut up and live.”
PINKPOP MANSION *
Tate stepped out of the mansion with a devious smirk , her mission here was done , Aimee had already confessed every fuckin sin she committed.
She’s just waiting for the right time to release it to the world.
Aimee’s gonna so fuckin pay .
The public will roast her .
Her sins are too much .Extra much .
Tate dove into the car, before igniting the engines she decided to check her phone, notifications buzzed like wild fire.
LeonardBloodbath trending worldwide.
GiselleMeltdown viral on every platform.
” I never knew Leo was mad to the extent of letting them beat him .Dude was smiling a psycho .” Tate shook her head , worriedly ” please don’t die Leo!”.she muttered.
Her phone screen lit up again ,it’s the tracker she placed in Liam’s phone.
He’s still in New York.
He’s in a hotel.
Tate’s eyes widened with rage
It better not be what she’s thinking.
She ignited the engines and glided away .
—
LEONARD’S MANSION — LIVING ROOM — SAME TIME
The seventy-inch screen dominated the wall, usually displaying business channels or muted sports. Today, it showed hell.
Eva dropped her wine glass. It shattered against the marble, red liquid pooling like blood, but she didn’t notice. Her eyes were locked on the screen—on her brother, on his knees, smiling while men broke his bones.
“Leo…” she whispered.
Lionel shot up from the leather sofa, phone forgotten in his hand. “That’s—that’s live? That’s now?”
“Turn it up,” Eva commanded, voice trembling. “Turn it up!”
The volume swelled. Reporters screaming. Sirens wailing. And Leonard’s laugh, that terrible, broken laugh, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
“Oh god,” Eva choked out. She was already moving—grabbing her keys, her coat, one heel on and one forgotten. “The hospital. We have to—Lionel, move!”
Lionel was paralyzed, staring at the screen. “He’s not fighting back. Why isn’t he fighting back?”
“Because he’s insane,” Eva snapped, grabbing her brother’s arm and yanking. “Because he’s our insane brother and they’re killing him on television!”
They burst through the front doors—elegant, controlled Eva and usually-carefree Lionel both wild-eyed, both running like children fleeing a nightmare.
FIVE STAR HOTEL — PENTHOUSE SUITE — NOON
The city lights glittered through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the pristine white carpet. Liam stood by the bar cart, pouring scotch he didn’t plan to drink, while Jemimah sat curled on the oversized sofa—showered, fed, wearing one of his shirts that swallowed her thin frame whole.
She’d stopped trembling. That was progress.
“You’re safe here,” Liam said, not turning around. “Order whatever you want. The staff knows my name.”
Jemimah nodded silently, hugging a decorative pillow like a shield. Seventeen. Alone. Trusting a stranger who’d found her starving on a highway. The math didn’t add up to safety, but she was too exhausted to calculate risks anymore.
The penthouse door exploded open.
Tate stormed in like a hurricane dressed in red soles and vengeance, her phone clutched like a weapon, eyes scanning the room and finding exactly what she’d feared.
“Liam,” she breathed, dangerous and low.
He turned slowly, glass frozen halfway to his lips. “Tate. How did you—”
” I tracked your phone, asshole. You think I don’t pay attention?” She laughed, sharp and broken. “I broke up with you last night. I said it was over because , But seeing this? Seeing you’ve already—”
Her voice cracked as her gaze landed on Jemimah.
The girl on the couch. Small. Young. Wearing his clothes.
Tate’s face crumpled, then reconstructed into something terrifying. “A kid?” she shrieked, advancing on him. “She’s a child, Liam! What is wrong with you?”
“She’s seventeen,” Liam said quietly, setting down the glass. “I found her on the highway after you—after we ended things. Starving. Her father’s dead. I brought her here to help.”
“To help?” Tate’s laugh was hysterical, tears streaming mascara down her cheeks. “You don’t help, Liam. You collect. You find broken things and you keep them until you’re bored!” She jabbed a finger toward Jemimah.
Jemimah stood up, small but steady. “Miss, please. He saved my life. Nothing bad is—”
“Don’t speak,” Tate snapped, whirling on her. “Don’t you dare speak to me. “
” THAT’S ENOUGH TATE , ENOUGH .AM NOT A CHILD YOU CAN JUST YELL AT , WE’RE OVER , YOU ENDED THINGS BETWEEN US COS I WAS SO CARING . DO YOU KNOW WHAT I REGRET IN MY LIFE MEETING SOMEONE SO HEARTLESS AND SELF CENTERED LIKE YOU . ABOUT WHAT’S GOING ON HERE I OWE YOU NO EXPLANATION , I CAN DO WHATEVER I FUCKIN WANT ITS MY LIFE .” Liam yelled .
Tate ran out tears brimming from her eyes .
Jemimah bit her lips so hard it bled ” Sir , I think I should leave .”
Liam faced her ” From now on , you’re my responsibility .”
Jemimah nodded ,she slid Eleanor’s pic out of the envelope and showed him .
He collected it .
” She’s my mother”.
” The fucccck.” Liam’s eyes widened refusing to close.
ELEANOR’S PRIVATE WARD
The room smelled of antiseptic and power—sterile white walls, monitors beeping soft lullabies of survival, and Richard pacing like a caged lion by the window. Eleanor lay propped against silk pillows, legs hidden beneath pristine sheets, her face a mask of porcelain composure that cracked around the eyes.
The door clicked open.
Three doctors entered—chief of surgery, head of neurology, the hospital director himself. Their expressions were professionally grave, rehearsed for delivering tragedy to wealthy families.
“Mr. President,” the chief began. “Mrs. Eleanor. We’ve completed the evaluations.”
Richard stopped pacing. “And?”
The neurologist stepped forward, chart clutched like a shield. “The bullets caused catastrophic damage. The knee joint—shattered beyond reconstruction. The shin—severe vascular and nerve trauma. The thigh—” He paused, swallowing. “The femoral nerve is severed completely.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened on the bedsheets. “Speak plainly.”.
The chief of surgery met her eyes. “You’ll never walk again, Mrs. Eleanor. Not with assistance, not with prosthetics. The paralysis is permanent from the waist down.”
Silence.
Richard’s hand found the windowsill, knuckles white. “There must be—treatments. Experimental procedures. I’ll buy the hospital. I’ll buy every—”
“Richard.” Eleanor’s voice was soft. Terrifyingly soft.
He turned.
She was smiling.
Not the broken smile of a woman receiving a death sentence for her legs. Something colder. Something that made the doctors step backward without knowing why.
“Leave us,” she said.
They scattered like birds.
“Three bullets,” she whispered, staring at the ceiling. “Three bullets from a madman, and I’m the one imprisoned.” She laughed, low and terrible. “He smiled, Richard. While they beat him, he smiled . For her. For that little witch who thinks she owns him.”
Richard sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “We’ll destroy him. Legally. Financially. I’ll—”
“No.” Eleanor’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist with surprising strength. “Not yet.” Her eyes gleamed, fever-bright. “He took my legs. I’ll take everything else. . His Shorty .”
” We can’t harm Giselle .” Richard nodded declinely.
Eleanor made to speak but Evelyn entered immediately ” Can I talk to my sister alone .” she demanded.
Richard sighed then he walked out.
” Leonard has paralyzed me .” Eleanor blurted out.
” I have a confession to make.” Evelyn smirked.
“Not yet.” Evelyn reached the foot of the bed, gripping the rail for support. “You wanted to hear a confession? Fine.” She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “I know what I did. Twenty-Six years ago. St. Mary’s maternity ward.”
Eleanor froze.
The monitors beeped louder. Or perhaps Eleanor only heard them suddenly, her own heartbeat drowning in the silence.
“What are you—”
“I switched the babies first,” Evelyn interrupted, her smirk widening into something predatory and victorious. “You and me—we put to bed on the same day. I was so angry. So jealous that you had Richard, that perfect life.” She laughed, sharp and broken. “I switched them. Your baby with mine. Aimee went home with you. Giselle went home with me.”
Eleanor stared at her. Then—
She smiled.
A slow, terrible smirk that spread across her face like blood in water.
“Is that your confession, darling sister?” Eleanor asked, voice honeyed and poisonous. “That you tried to steal my child?”
Evelyn’s smirk faltered. “I—”
Eleanor laughed. Low. Cruel. Victorious .
“I re-changed it.”
” You tortured your own real daughter .Giselle. ” Eleanor clapped her hands .
Evelyn forgot how to breath.
She unknowingly tortured her own real daughter.
TO BE CONTINUED
