Page 4 of The Billionaire's Obsession

It's only when he's fully engaged with the mayor that I realize my tray is trembling slightly in my hands. That my heart is racing as if I've run a marathon. That my body feels simultaneously ice-cold and burning hot.

And that somehow, in the space of a few minutes and fewer words, Damon Blackwell has seen more of the real me than anyone in this room. Perhaps more than anyone has in years.

The thought terrifies me almost as much as the certainty that he isn't done looking.

My hands won't stop trembling. I've retreated to the kitchen twice to splash cold water on my wrists, an old trick my mother taught me for calming nerves, but it isn't working. Nothing could neutralize the lingering electricity from Damon Blackwell's gaze, from the brief touch of his fingers against my elbow. I arrange fresh champagne flutes on my tray and take a steadying breath, only to feel it catch in my throat when Manuel approaches with an expression that tells me my night is about to get exponentially more complicated.

"Lucy," he says, his voice low and urgent. "Edwards wants you to take over table seven."

My stomach drops. "Table seven? That's?—"

"Blackwell's table." Manuel nods, his expression a mix of sympathy and curiosity. "Edwards says the guest specifically requested you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. He requested me. Of course he did. That brief interaction wasn't coincidence or casual interest—it was reconnaissance.

"There must be someone else," I protest weakly, already knowing it's futile. When Damon Blackwell requests something, the universe rearranges itself to provide it—isn't that what those women said?

Manuel shrugs. "Orders from the top. And Lucy?" His eyes flick to my still-trembling hands. "Don't spill anything on the billionaire, okay?"

I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the sound might edge too close to hysteria. Instead, I nod and gather a fresh tray of drinks. The weight feels impossible suddenly, as if gravity has intensified around me specifically.

Table seven occupies the most secluded corner of the ballroom, partially screened by an arrangement of exotic orchids. It's reserved for VIPs who want visibility when it suits them and privacy when it doesn't. The perfect setting for a predator who occasionally allows himself to be seen.

I approach with measured steps, forcing air in and out of my lungs in a deliberate rhythm. Four tuxedoed men surround Damon, leaning in to catch his quietly spoken words. They laugh on cue—not the genuine mirth of shared humor but the calculated response of men who know the value of appearing agreeable.

Damon sits with his back to the wall, giving him a clear view of the entire room. Of me. His posture is relaxed but alert, one hand resting casually on the pristine tablecloth. He doesn'tpause his conversation as I approach, doesn't acknowledge me immediately. But I feel his awareness like a physical touch.

"Gentlemen," I manage, my voice impressively steady as I begin placing drinks. "Fresh champagne."

One man—silver-haired with a face flushed from alcohol—barely glances at me as he takes his glass. Another mutters a distracted thanks. The third, younger than the others with hungry eyes, lets his gaze linger inappropriately on my body before accepting his drink.

I save Damon for last, prolonging the inevitable. When I finally turn to him, he's watching me with that same intense focus from before. I extend the last champagne flute, and for one terrible, wonderful moment, I think he might brush his fingers against mine deliberately.

He doesn't. He takes the glass with precise movements, maintaining a millimeter of space between our fingers.

"Thank you, Lucy," he says, my name in his mouth sounding different somehow—significant, weighted with unspoken meaning.

I haven't told him my name. The realization sends a jolt through my system, a mixture of alarm and something dangerously close to excitement. He asked about me. Learned about me. Wanted to know.

"You're welcome, Mr. Blackwell," I reply, the formality a flimsy shield between us. "Can I bring you anything else?"

His eyes hold mine a beat too long. "Not at present."

I should leave—complete my task and retreat. Instead, I hover uncertainly, trapped in the magnetic field of his attention. The younger executive clears his throat, breaking the moment.

"We were discussing the Westfield merger," he says pointedly.

Damon's gaze remains on me for another second before he turns to the man. "No, Hodges. You were discussing the Westfield merger. I was explaining why it won't happen."

The correction is delivered without heat but with such finality that Hodges physically recoils. I use the distraction to step back, to put precious inches between myself and the suffocating intensity of Damon's presence.

"I'll return shortly with water," I say to no one in particular, then turn and walk away with careful, measured steps. I feel Damon's eyes on me the entire time, tracking me across the room like a targeting system.

In the service area, I press my palms against the cool metal of a prep table and exhale shakily.

"You okay?" asks a female server whose name I can't remember. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," I lie for the second time tonight. "Just a difficult table."

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