Page 3 of The Billionaire's Obsession

Heat floods my body—not entirely unpleasant, which confuses me further. I should be offended by that look. Instead, something primitive inside me recognizes it and respondes to it. My lips part slightly, drawing in air that suddenly seems too thin.

I force myself to break the connection, to focus on balancing my tray and navigating between tables. But my body has betrayed me. My skin prickles with awareness. My pulse raceslike I've been running. Even the weight of my uniform feels different against my sensitized nerves.

What is happening to me?

A flash of midnight blue in my peripheral vision sends me in another direction. I'm not running from him. I'm just... strategically relocating. To the opposite side of the ball, where a group of women with surgical enhancements and diamond-encrusted wrists beckon me for more champagne.

"...heard his last girlfriend was a model," one whispers as I approach.

"Ex-model," another corrects. "He doesn't date actively working women. Scheduling conflicts, supposedly."

"Well, I've cleared my calendar for the next decade," a third jokes, and they all laugh, the sound brittle and performative.

They're talking about him. Of course they are. Everyone is, in one way or another. I serve them with mechanical efficiency, trying not to eavesdrop but unable to help myself.

"He's not interested in your calendar, Margot. Word is he's exacting. Specific. The kind of man who knows exactly what he wants and arranges the universe to provide it."

Something about those words sends a shiver down my spine. I step away before they can notice my reaction, weaving through the crowd toward the relative safety of the service corridor. Just a few minutes to collect myself. To shake off this strange, electric feeling that's taken possession of my body.

I don't make it.

CHAPTER

THREE

Lucy

A hand touches my elbow—lightbut unmistakable—and every molecule in my body seems to reorganize around that point of contact. I don't need to look to know who it is. My body has already recognized him, responded to him on some cellular level that bypasses conscious thought.

I turn slowly, tray clutched against my chest like armor, and raise my eyes to meet Damon Blackwell's storm-cloud gaze.

Up close, he's even more overwhelming. His height forces me to tilt my head back. The subtle scent of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive and distinctly masculine—fills my nostrils. But it's the focus in his eyes that truly pins me in place. I've never been looked at like this—like I'm being memorized, catalogued, claimed.

"Sir," I manage, my voice strangely steady despite the earthquake happening inside me. "Can I help you with something?"

His lips curve slightly—not a true smile, but an acknowledgment of the absurdity of my question. As if we bothknow this encounter was inevitable from the moment he walked in. As if the very air between us is charged with purpose.

"You can," he says, and his voice is exactly what I expected—deep, controlled, with the quiet confidence of someone who never needs to raise it to be heard. "But not with anything on your tray."

The simple statement shouldn't sound so intimate, and yet heat blooms across my skin as if he's touched me again. I watch, transfixed, as his gaze drops briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes with renewed intensity.

"I don't—" I begin, but the words evaporate under the weight of his attention.

"You don't belong here," he states, not unkindly but with absolute certainty. "Not serving these people."

It's such an unexpected observation that I forget to be intimidated for a moment. "I need the job, Mr. Blackwell."

Something flashes in his eyes when I say his name—satisfaction, perhaps, or surprise that I recognize him so easily. He studies me for another long moment, during which I become acutely aware of every imperfection in my appearance—the stray hair escaped from my bun, the small scuff on my sensible black shoes, the faint smudge of mascara I noticed earlier but couldn't fix.

"What's your name?" he asks, though it doesn't sound like a question so much as a demand.

Before I can answer, a commotion near the main doors provides a merciful interruption. We both turn to see the mayor gesturing dramatically, clearly wanting Damon's attention for some official purpose.

Damon's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. When he looks back at me, there's an intensity in his expression that steals my breath.

"This isn't finished," he says quietly, the words carrying the weight of a promise—or a warning. Then he steps back, releasing me from the magnetic field of his presence without ever having really touched me.

I watch him stride toward the mayor, his movements precise and controlled. The crowd parts for him automatically, like subjects before a king. And despite everything rational in me saying I should be relieved, I feel an inexplicable sense of loss as the distance between us grows.

---