Page 82 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
The knot in this fucking tie feels like a goddamn noose. I adjust it for the tenth time, staring at my reflection. The suit is bespoke, naturally. Impeccable. Worth more than most people’s annual salaries. Usually, I throw these things on without a second thought. Armor for the battlefield of bullshit galas and performative philanthropy.
But tonight is different.
Tonight, the armor feels far too insufficient.
Or maybe my tailor pulled a fast one.
Nah, he wouldn’t dare sell me an ill-fitting suit.
Why the fuck do I care if the pocket square sits exactly right anyway?
Since when do I give a damn about the precise angle of my cufflinks?
It’s absurd.
It’s only because she’ll be there. Beside me.
And the entire viper pit of New York society will be watching. Judging. Speculating.
My father will be watching. That alone is reasonenough to project absolute control, absolute indifference.
But the meticulousness isn’t just about control. It’s about… something else.
Something I refuse to name.
My reflection stares back, cool blue eyes betraying nothing. Good. Keep it that way.
This isn’t a date. It’s a strategic deployment. A public statement. Project Nightingale isn’t just a business deal. It’s a partnership. And Lucy Hammond is integral to it. Showing a united front, especially under my father’s glare, is tactically sound. Necessary, even.
It reinforces my position. It signals my independence from his corrosive influence. It protects her, shields her from the fallout I know he’s capable of orchestrating.
Protecting her.
Where the fuck did that come from?
Since when is she something to be protected instead of a target to be acquired?
Fuck. This is complicated.
The intercom buzzes. “Mr. Rossi is here, Mr. Blackwell.” Elijah’s voice, crisp and efficient as always.
“Send him up.” I give the tie one final, savage tug.
Dominic strides into my penthouse a few minutes later, already looking annoyingly relaxed in his tux. He helps himself to the bar without asking, pouring two fingers of scotch.
“Ready to face the lions, Chris?” he asks, that familiar mocking glint in his eyes. “Or should I say, ready to present your lioness?”
“It’s a business event, Dominic,” I snap, grabbing my own glass. Maybe the alcohol will dull the edges of this unfamiliar anxiety. “A necessary appearance.”
“Right. Business.” He takes a sip of his scotch, surveying me with amusement. “That explains why you look like you’re about to face a firing squad instead of accepting an award for pretending to care about starving artists or endangered pigeons or whatever the hell this gala is for.”
“It’s theCity Preservation Fund,” I correct him automatically. “And it’s about reinforcing the Blackwell Innovations brand commitment to responsible development.”
Bullshit mostly, but it’s the company line.
“Ah, yes. Responsible development.” Dominic grins. “Is that what we’re calling your hostile takeover of Lucy Hammond’s affections now?”
“Fuck off, Rossi.” I down the scotch in one go. The burn is almost welcome. “It’s not a takeover. And it’s not… that.”
