Page 66 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Her company’s crisis triggers my protective instincts, my need to deploy resources, to fix it forher.
Fear, cold and sharp, cuts through the adrenaline. This is exactly the vulnerability my father warned about. Emotional investment. Attachment. It makes you weak. It makes you predictable. It makes you easy to hurt. My mother proved that. My father reinforces it daily.
Yet… here I am. Racing back to the city, mobilizing my empire, not for a hostile takeover, but to helpher.
To supporther.
Still, I’m wondering if I told her too much when we were cuddling together in bed. Revealed too much, showed my hand.
And I’m almost grateful for the timing of this crisis, terrible as it is.
Because most likely, the shock and adrenalin and the effort of dealing with the aftermath will ensure she forgets every word I said back there.
We land on the rooftop helipad of a building near the crisis site. Emergency vehicle sirens wail below.
As we descend in the private elevator, Lucy turns to me, her eyes searching mine.
“Christopher… thank you. For this. For helping.”
“Standard operational procedure when a potential investment faces a significant crisis,” I reply, my voice deliberately devoid of emotion. The walls are back.
As the elevator doors open onto the street level chaos, the flashing lights, the emergency crews, the frantic activity around the base of the Hammond Tower, I step out beside her.
I should hand her off to her own people.
Return to my sterile office.
Analyze the situation from a distance.
Protect my investment.
Protect myself.
But I don’t. I stay. Standing beside her on the edge of the chaos, watching her immediately start coordinating with her team, watching her take charge with a calm authority that belies the situation’s gravity.
I’m uncomfortable.
Out of my element.
Too close to the emotional fallout.
Too invested.
And yet… pulling away feels impossible right now.
Fucking impossible.
22
Lucy
Okay, crisis mode.
The stench of dust, diesel fumes, and panic is everywhere. Flashing lights paint the surrounding buildings in strobing reds and blues. Sirens scream. Shouted commands echo off the steel frame of the half finished Hammond Tower.
It’s chaos.
Organized chaos, maybe, thanks to the FDNY and NYPD, but chaos nonetheless.
