Page 147 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Instead? He just… accepted it.
Respected my decision.
Walked away.
Mr. Control Freak himself, respecting my boundaries.
It’s noble.
It’s mature.
And it’s killing me softly.
Does this mean he doesn’t care as much as I thought? Or does it mean he respects my new role even more than I do?
My brain hurts.
One of the first things I did after that disastrous day was dismiss his security detail. Politely, of course.I called Tatiana, because calling Christopher directly felt like crossing the very line I’d just drawn, and explained that while I appreciated the gesture, Darius and Rebecca were no longer necessary.
My reasoning?
With our personal connection severed (ouch, still stings), I was no longer a logical target for Mark Blackwell’s ire. He’d focus on the company, not me personally.
Tatiana accepted this with her usual unnerving calm.
I immediately hired my own security firm of course. Less intimidating, probably less effective, butmine. Bought and paid for by Hammond & Co.
Independence, right?
Feels more like self-imposed isolation.
The only upside to this mess is Dad. He’s recovering slowly but steadily. His color is better, his grumpiness more pronounced (a sure sign of improvement).
But the fight seems to have gone out of him regarding the business. He listens to my cheery updates, nods, occasionally offers a piece of nostalgic advice, but the fire is gone.
He seems resigned, almost relieved, to be out of the line of fire.
Which leaves me squarely in it.
Alone.
“Alone is a choice, you know.” Ava’s voice startles me. She’s standing in the doorway of my office late one evening, holding two steaming cups of coffee. My own personal caffeine-delivering angel.
I didn’t even hear her come in.
My new security guy, Frank, nice, burly,probably used to guarding suburban shopping malls, has already met her, and knows to let her through. Knowing him, he’s probably thrilled to be hanging out with Ava’s security detail out front.
“Hey,” I manage, rubbing my tired eyes. The legal briefs on Mark Blackwell’s latest filing are starting to swim together. “Didn’t hear you knock.”
“You looked like you were communing with the spirit of bankruptcy law,” she says, setting a cup down on my desk. It smells heavenly. “Rough day?”
“Rough life,” I sigh, taking a grateful sip. “Is it possible to die from analyzing hostile takeover defense strategies?”
“Only if Gideon King is involved,” she says wryly. “So spill. You look like hell warmed over, and I know it’s not just the workload.”
And just like that, the dam breaks. The carefully constructed CEO facade crumbles. The exhaustion, the fear, the loneliness… it all comes pouring out.
The pressure.
