Oops I Banged the CEO novel Chapter 50

Yvonne scrolled further down, taking in the chaos unfolding in the company group chat.

It was like someone had set off a firecracker—everyone was talking at once.

Linda’s assistant was especially active, fanning the flames with comments about how Marico and Linda were old college friends and clearly shared a special bond. The implication was that Linda enjoyed more care and attention because of it.

Even the senior managers—usually silent and elusive—were suddenly popping up with opinions.

In short, the chat was buzzing with energy.

But as Yvonne remembered how she’d almost been taken advantage of the night before, her delicate, fair face grew cold.

She locked her phone, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on her face, trying to steady herself.

When she finally stepped out of the restroom, Yvonne had regained her composure.

Just then, she caught Marico on the phone. Passing by, she overheard, “Was the camera in the private dining room broken before, or did it just stop working that night?”

He listened to the reply, then hung up, frowning as he glanced at Yvonne. “The camera in the private room was dead.”

Yvonne took a deep breath, her voice tinged with resignation. “Of course there wouldn’t be any evidence if someone planned to do something shady. I should’ve been more careful.”

Without evidence, Linda would walk away unscathed. Yvonne didn’t dare imagine Marico giving up business partnerships for her sake.

Still, she counted her blessings—at least she was unharmed.

“That’s it then. I’ll be more cautious next time.”

“If you’ve been wronged, there should be consequences,” Marico said crisply, slipping his phone away, his tone cool and precise.

Yvonne blinked. “Sorry?”

“I’ll have the kitchen make you some chicken soup for lunch. Want to eat together?” Marico changed the subject, eyeing her slight frame.

He couldn’t help but recall her tearful, trembling figure from the night before. She clearly needed something nourishing.

Yvonne seized the chance to deflect. “Sure, I’ll head to the cafeteria for some soup at lunch.”

But when she heard the invitation to eat together, she immediately grew wary.

Marico noticed her guarded look but let it go.

They headed downstairs.

When they reached the dining room, Yvonne wiped her hands with a warm towel and sat down, waiting for Marico to join her.

She observed every courtesy, the very image of a polite, diligent employee.

Marico sat across from her, lips pressed into a thin line, his movements graceful as ever.

Compared to last night’s chaos, breakfast was unusually quiet and calm.

After they finished eating, Yvonne picked up her car keys—then remembered her car was still parked outside the hotel.

“Ride with me,” Marico offered.

Yvonne was about to refuse.

But Marico clicked his keys, making the black Bentley’s headlights flash. “If you’re late today, you know you’ll get docked pay.”

Yvonne sighed inwardly.

“Okay, give me a second.” She dashed upstairs, coming back down bundled in a coat, baseball cap, sunglasses, and face mask. She looked ready for a celebrity stakeout.

She slipped into the back seat, stiff as a board, as if she was hiding from the world.

Marico glanced at her over his shoulder, expression unreadable.

He said nothing, got in, and started the car.

The company president’s car was comfortable at first, but as they got closer to the office, Yvonne grew uneasy.

“These are from Mr. Reed. He wanted to thank you for your company last night. He hopes you’ll accept this bouquet as a token of his appreciation.”

The florist’s words were loud enough for everyone to hear, making the gesture sound far more suggestive than it was.

“Sorry, you must have the wrong person. The real star of last night’s deal was our director, Linda,” Yvonne replied coolly, refusing to take the flowers.

If she accepted, people would jump to conclusions about some secret romance with Owen. Gossip would twist the story beyond recognition.

“But the client insisted they go to you,” the florist said, still smiling politely, holding the bouquet awkwardly when Yvonne didn’t reach for it.

“Then please return them to the sender.”

“Please, don’t make this difficult for me. I’m just the delivery man.”

“If it’s really that much trouble, why not split the bouquet? Give a small bunch to each of my teammates, leave fifty-two roses for the director, and hand out the rest as you see fit. I don’t need any.”

Yvonne gave clear instructions.

The florist hesitated, then nodded.

“I’ll sign for them,” Yvonne said.

“Alright.” The florist handed her the slip.

Yvonne grabbed a black pen and signed, “Received by Yvonne, Creative Department.” She even took a photo for the record.

She handled a love-soaked bouquet the same way she’d process any work document—efficient and impersonal.

No sooner had she signed than pictures of the florist started appearing in the company group chat.

Everyone was speculating about who the lucky recipient of ninety-nine red roses could be—it was all so romantic.

Linda chimed in with a playful message: Looks like Mr. Reed sent those to Yvonne after last night’s dinner!