Page 8 of The Billionaire's Obsession

The crisp morning air fills my lungs as I step outside, but it does nothing to clear the fog in my head. I should feel lighter today. Instead, with each step toward campus, I feel watched, marked, selected for something I don't understand.

Someone has paid for me. The question that haunts me as I hurry to class isn't just who, but what exactly they think they've bought.

CHAPTER

FIVE

Lucy

Three hoursof lectures and a six-hour shift at the coffee shop later, I drag myself up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, shoulders aching and feet screaming. The last thing I expect to see ishim—Damon Blackwell himself—leaning against my door frame like he owns it. Maybe he does. His charcoal suit probably costs more than my rent for a year, his watch more than my entire education. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and my exhaustion evaporates, replaced by something electric and dangerous.

I freeze on the landing, coffee grounds still under my fingernails, the smell of espresso clinging to my clothes. For a moment, I wonder if I'm hallucinating—if the mystery of my vanished debt has finally broken my sleep-deprived brain.

"Ms. Mercer." His voice is deep, smooth like expensive whiskey I've never tasted. "You're exactly on time."

I haven't told him when my shift ends. I haven't told him anything.

"How did you find my apartment?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

A smile touches his lips but doesn't reach his eyes. "Finding things is what I do." He straightens from the door frame, standing to his full height—at least six-foot-two of lean, controlled power. "May I come in? We have matters to discuss."

It's not really a question. Men like Damon Blackwell don't ask permission. They inform you of what's about to happen.

"This is about my student loans," I say. Not a question either.

"Perceptive. I appreciate that quality." He gestures to my door. "Shall we?"

My fingers tremble slightly as I dig for my keys. I'm acutely aware of him behind me—the subtle scent of his cologne, the quiet confidence in his posture, the heat that seems to radiate from him despite the professional distance he maintains.

The lock clicks open, and I step into my tiny studio, painfully conscious of its inadequacies. The futon that doubles as my bed is still unmade. Books and papers cover every surface. The kitchen sink still holds this morning's coffee mug.

Damon Blackwell steps inside after me, and my apartment instantly shrinks. He doesn't comment on the surroundings, but his eyes take in everything—cataloging, assessing, judging.

"You're wondering why I paid your debt," he says, moving to the center of the room. He doesn't sit, doesn't ask to sit. He just stands there, commanding the space.

"Among other things." I remain by the door, hand still on the knob. "Like why Damon Blackwell, CEO of a multi-billion-dollar corporation, is standing in my studio apartment on a Tuesday evening."

He studies me for a moment, and I fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. His eyes are gray—not the soft gray of morning fog, but the hard gray of steel.

"I've looked into you, Lucy," he says, and my stomach tightens at the casual use of my first name. "Top of your class at undergrad. Currently maintaining a 3.9 GPA in your MBA program while working thirty hours a week. Impressive."

"That doesn't explain why you paid off my student loans." I try to keep my voice neutral, but my heart is hammering against my ribs.

"I'm getting to that." He runs a finger along the edge of my desk, examining the textbooks stacked there. "I have a proposition for you. A job offer."

"A job?" I repeat stupidly. "At Blackwell Industries?"

"As my personal assistant." He turns to face me fully now. "My current PA is leaving to start a family. I need someone intelligent, dedicated, and discreet to replace her. Someone who can learn quickly and handle pressure. Someone like you."

I blink, trying to process this. "You paid off nearly fifty thousand dollars in student loans as...what? A signing bonus?"

"Consider it an investment." His tone is matter-of-fact. "I needed to get your attention, and I needed to demonstrate what working for me can offer."

"Most people just send an email." The words slip out before I can stop them.

To my surprise, one corner of his mouth quirks up. "I'm not most people, Lucy."

No, he certainly isn't. Most people don't track down struggling students and eliminate their debt. Most people don't show up unannounced at women's apartments. Most people don't look at you like they can see through your clothes, your skin, right down to the marrow of your bones.

---