The Billionaire’s Untamed Obsession

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV:

"Am I wrong? Isn't she a homewrecker, not a person worth an ounce of respect?" I stood up, the chair screeching against the floor of the Aurora Table, my finger trembling as I pointed it directly at Katrín Rúnarsdóttir.

It had been fifteen years since the day my childhood ended. For fifteen years, my father hadn’t provided a single króna of support for me or Freya. I remember being ten years old, standing in the rain outside his new office, begging for enough money to cover my school books. He hadn't just said no; he had looked at me with such disgust before pushing me away that I fell into the slush. But the daughter of the woman who destroyed our family, Embla Rúnarsdóttir, had lived a life of gold-plated luxury ever since.

From that day on, I swore I would never take a penny from him again. Ragnar Demánsdóttir ceased to be my father the moment he traded his family for a mistress.

"Ragnar, look at how she humiliates me! I won't stand for this!" Katrín shouted, her voice shrill enough to turn the heads of every wealthy patron in the restaurant.

"Enough!" Ragnar roared.

Slap!

The sound of his hand hitting my cheek echoed through the silent dining room. For a heartbeat, the world went gray. A sickening, sharp heat radiated from my skin, and the salt of blood bloomed in my mouth. I stumbled, my vision swimming as the floor rushed up to meet me.

Before I could even catch my breath, a new, agonizing pain lanced through the back of my hand. I looked down, gasping, to see Embla’s thin stiletto heel grinding into my knuckles. She wasn't just stepping on me; she was leaning her weight into it, a cruel, plastic smile fixed on her face.

Anger, cold and violent, snapped the haze in my brain. "Get off me!" I screamed.

I didn't think; I reacted. I reached up and grabbed the tureen of scalding Arctic char soup from the center of the table and heaved it upward. The liquid splashed across Ragnar’s expensive suit, making him howl in shock. Without stopping, I grabbed the plates of braised lamb and beet salad, hurling them at Katrín and Embla.

Grease and sauce splattered over their designer dresses. "How dare you!" Ragnar bellowed, raising his fist to strike me again. But as Uncle John and Aunt Carter rushed to my side, shielding me, his arm faltered.

"What kind of monster attacks her own father?" Katrín shrieked, clutching her stained chest.

Aunt Carter didn't give them the satisfaction of an answer. She just pulled me against her side, her arm a firm barrier. "I won't have a daughter like this!" Ragnar roared, his face purple with rage.

"Good," I spat, wiping the blood from my lip with my sleeve, my eyes burning with a defiance that felt like victory. "I haven't had a father in fifteen years anyway."

As I turned to leave, I caught sight of Zonrik Zartholm. He was still sitting perfectly still, his dark eyes fixed on me with an expression of chilling indifference. That look—that cold, billionaire detachment—stung more than the slap. I raised my chin, stared him down until his jaw tightened, and then walked out into the biting Icelandic wind.

The spring air was freezing, and my thin blazer offered no protection. I walked for what felt like miles, my feet throbbing in my heels, my face burning. I was twenty-eight years old, a professional veterinarian, and I had just been assaulted by the man who was supposed to protect me. I couldn't stop the tears from falling, but I didn't regret the soup. Not for a second.

Suddenly, a sleek black Bentley pulled to the curb beside me. The window slid down, revealing Zonrik’s handsome, impassive face.

"Get in," he ordered.

I hated that tone. The corporate command, the assumption of obedience. "It’s not working hours, Mr. Zartholm. I don't take orders from you in the middle of the night."

"It’s nearly midnight, it’s freezing, and this area isn't safe for a woman alone," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "There have been reports of attacks near the Hvalfjörður trail recently. The police haven't caught the suspect. Don't be a martyr for your ego."

The wind gusted then, chilling me to the bone. I looked at the dark, empty road ahead and the looming shadows of the mountains. My pride was strong, but my survival instinct was stronger. I yanked the door open and sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead as I buckled the belt.

The silence in the car was suffocating. I kept my hand over my bruised cheek, feeling smaller than I had in years.

"Thank you, Mr. Zartholm," I said quietly as we reached the gravel turnoff to my cottage.

"You're an employee of Zartholm Global," he replied, his voice devoid of warmth. "If you're incapacitated, the Land Trust loses its most knowledgeable consultant on the sanctuary borders. I'm protecting an asset, nothing more."

I felt the anger flare up again. "Don't worry, Mr. Zartholm. I’m a 'sentimental relic,' remember? We relics are surprisingly hard to break. Keep your concern for your blueprints."

I slammed the door and watched the Bentley roar away, its taillights disappearing into the mist. He was a machine in a suit, a man who saw humans as line items on a balance sheet.

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV:

The next morning, the Haven Sanctuary felt like a battlefield. I arrived at the Land Trust office with a swollen jaw and a coffee in hand, only to find Gert Holm looking like he was facing an execution.

"A major parameter error was found in the development proposal, Elín," he whispered. "The coastal erosion data—it was calculated wrong. The Zartholm legal team is on the warpath."

My heart stopped. I was the one who had verified those numbers. I had spent weeks staying up late, distracted by the rising costs of animal feed and the looming threat of the resort. I must have missed the decimal shift.

"How bad is it?"

"Zonrik is in his office. He wants blood."

I walked into the Zartholm Sky Residence office, my heart hammering. Zonrik was standing by the window, a thick file folder in his hand. When he turned, he didn't look angry; he looked lethal. He threw the folder onto the desk with a crash that made me jump.

"Explain this," he demanded. "Do you have any idea what an error like this does to a multi-billion dollar bidding process? We could lose the corridor rights by Monday."

"I... I was working under extreme pressure," I started, but his eyes cut me off.

"Everyone works under pressure, Elín. But not everyone lets their 'sentimental' distractions cost a company millions. Find out who else touched these files. I want them fired by noon."

I thought of Ala Lind. She had helped me with the data entry while her mother was at St. Ólafur Medical Center. If Ala lost her job, she’d lose the insurance that was keeping her mother alive.

"It was me," I said, stepping forward. "Only me. Don't blame the staff."

Zonrik walked toward me, his presence filling the room. "You're shielding them. I see it in your eyes."

"I'm offering a remedy," I countered. "There are six days until Monday. I will stay here, in this office, and recalculate every single parameter from scratch. I’ll fix it."

Zonrik’s lip curled in a sneer. "You think you can do in six days what a team of analysts did in a month? You think you’re faster than a Zartholm mainframe?"

"The mainframe clearly failed," I whispered.

The room went silent. Zonrik’s eyes searched mine, his expression a mix of fury and something I couldn't name. "Fine," he said finally. "If the corrected plan isn't on my desk by 8:00 AM Monday, you and your sanctuary are finished. I will personally sign the eviction notice."

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV:

I lived on caffeine and adrenaline for the next forty-eight hours. On Saturday afternoon, my phone buzzed. It was Magnús Einarsson, the local biology teacher who had been helping me at the sanctuary.

"Elín, I know you're buried, but you have to eat," he said. "I'm outside the Zartholm building with the seafood stew from Aurora Table. Come down for ten minutes."

I went down to the plaza, my eyes burning from the glow of the computer screen. Magnús was waiting on a bench, a warm container in his hand. He looked at my face, his eyes softening. "He hit you again, didn't he? Your father?"

"It doesn't matter, Magnús. I’m fixing it."

"You're killing yourself for a man who wants to destroy your home," he said, handing me a spoon.

I began to eat, the warm broth the first real thing I’d tasted in days. I was so focused on the food that I didn't see the black SUV pull into the VIP lane.

"Is the work so easy that you have time for a picnic?"

I looked up. Zonrik was standing there, his hands in his pockets, his gaze raking over me and Magnús. He looked at the seafood stew, then at Magnús’s hand resting on my shoulder.

"Mr. Zartholm," I said, standing up. "I'm on my break."

"The Zartholm Group doesn't pay for breaks during a crisis," he said, his voice like ice. "No wonder the parameters were wrong. It seems the 'Guardian of the Hvalfjörður' is more interested in local romance than her responsibilities."

"Magnús is a friend," I snapped.

Zonrik stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. "I don't care what he is. I care about Monday morning. Get back upstairs, Elín. Unless you want to spend your Sunday packing up your animals."

I turned back to the building, my jaw tight. "He’s just a capitalist with a god complex, Magnús," I whispered as I walked away. "Don't let him get to you."

But as I stood in the elevator, I saw my reflection in the chrome door. My face was pale, my jaw was bruised, and I was fighting for the very man who treated me like a broken tool.

"Why do I keep running into you?" I muttered to the empty elevator.

"Because you're in my world now, Elín," a voice said. I jumped. I hadn't realized Zonrik had stepped into the elevator behind me.

The doors closed, trapping us in the small, silent space. He looked at my cheek, his hand twitching at his side. For a second, I thought he might touch me. Instead, he just looked away.

"Monday, Elín," he said softly. "Don't make me do something we both regret."

"You've never regretted anything in your life, Zonrik," I said, stepping out as the doors opened. "That's your superpower."

I walked to my desk, the weight of the sanctuary, Charles, and my own pride resting on my shoulders. I had to win. Because if I didn't, the Zartholm empire would swallow everything I loved.