Page 64 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
And we talk.
Not about Morgan Weiss.
Not about Hammond & Co.’s precarious financials.
Just… talk.
She asks about the art in the house, her art history background making her observations insightful, not just polite. I find myself telling her about the artists, the stories behind the acquisitions, things I rarely discuss.
Then she gets quieter, her gaze thoughtful as she looks around the vast, beautiful, yet somehow solitary room. Her gaze drifts to the balcony, and theocean beyond.
“It’s beautiful here, Christopher. Peaceful. But…” she hesitates. “Don’t you ever get lonely?”
The question hangs in the air. Most people are too intimidated by the wealth, the power, the reputation, to ask anything remotely personal.
They see the billionaire, the Executioner.
Not the man trapped inside the gilded cage.
“I don’t have time to get lonely,” I reply. “I’m married to my work.”
She nods slowly, patiently.
Even though it’s a lie.
Yes, it’s a deflection. A non-answer. Something I’ve said a million times.
I want to give her the truth.
And seeing the genuine curiosity, the empathy in her eyes… the truth feels somehow less dangerous than usual.
Or maybe I’m just getting careless.
“That’s not entirely true, well it is, but there’s more to it,” I concede, my voice carefully neutral as I stare up at the ceiling, avoiding her direct gaze for a moment. Easier to talk to the plaster. “Wealth creates barriers, Lucy. Or maybe it just illuminates the ones that are already there. People approach you with agendas. Always. They want something. Money. Access. Status.” I pause, then turn my head slightly to look at her. “Even you, initially. You came to me wanting something specific. A deal. A lifeline for Hammond.”
I see a flicker in her eyes. Maybe defensiveness, maybe just acknowledgment.
“But,” I continue, trying to articulate the distinction, something I haven’t bothered doing before, “it felt… different almost immediately. Most people who want something from me strategize how to get it with the least resistance. Flattery, manipulation, appealing to ego… it’s transparent. Predictable.” I shift my gaze back to the ceiling. “You came in fighting. Not for personal gain, not trying to cash out. You fought for the company. For your father’s legacy, flawed as it is. For the employees. You were willing to sacrifice your own pride, maybe even your principles, to save something you valued more than the money itself.”
I think back to her arguments, her determination, even her infuriating optimism. And I wonder if I’m saying this for her, or for myself.
“You didn’t treat me like a walking bank account or a stepping stone. You treated me like… well, initially like the enemy,” a small, wry twist touches my lips, “but an opponent to be negotiated with, challenged, not just placated. You argued ethics. You pushed back. That’s… rare. Most people just calculate the angle.” I shrug, a minimal movement, bringing my walls back up slightly. “But the fundamental principle holds. Genuine connection is treacherous territory when everyone has a potential agenda. Lonliness... isolation... it’s just a side effect of self-preservation. The cost of doing business at this level.”
She’s quite for several moments. Finally:
“So you just accept it?” she asks quietly. “Being alone?”
“Acceptance is irrelevant,” I reply flatly. “It simply is.” It’s the reality my father hammered into me, the reality my mother’s departure confirmed. Attachments are liabilities. People leave. Trust is a fool’s game.
I always believed that reality.
Until now.
I don’t know what to believe anymore.
Lucy doesn’t offer pity. Doesn’t argue.She just absorbs my words, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe,” she says softly, “you just haven’t met the right people willing to climb the walls.”
Before I can process that, my secure phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand. Not the burner. My main line. With an urgent, priority tone. Only Tatiana or Elijah use it.
