Page 92 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Need to get my head straight before the day devours me.
I pull on sweats and head for the kitchen. Emilia already has the espresso machine humming, a small smile playing on her lips as she hands me a cup. She doesn’t say anything. She never does.
But she knows.
Staff always knows.
The thought is irritating. My private life shouldn’t be fodder for kitchen gossip.
“Emilia,” I say, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t carry back to the bedroom. “Ms. Hammond is still asleep. When she wakes, make her breakfast, and inform her Victor will return for her immediately after dropping me off at the office. He’ll take her wherever she needs to go.”
“Of course, Mr. Blackwell,” she replies smoothly, her expression unreadable again.
Efficient. Discreet.
Exactly why she’s lasted longer than any other chef I’ve employed.
I grab my usual pre-packed gym bag and head for the private elevator.
In the underground parking garage, VictorHarmon is already waiting by the gleaming black sedan, door open, posture impeccable.
He nods almost imperceptibly as I approach. Behind my car, a black SUV waits, engine idling. Elijah Reeves sits in the passenger seat, scanning the area. My ever-present shadow detail.
Necessary evil.
“Morning, Victor.”
“Mr. Blackwell.”
I slide into the back seat. The familiar scent of expensive leather and Victor’s faint, unobtrusive cologne fills the space. It smells like control. Predictability. Something I desperately need right now.
As we pull away from the curb, the SUV follows, maintaining a precise distance.
The drive downtown is swift. I stare out at the city waking up, the concrete canyons indifferent to the turmoil churning inside me.
Last night feels like a lifetime ago. A dream state fueled by adrenaline, defiance, and Lucy’s surprisingly potent effect on my system.
Now, reality bites back. Blackwell Tower looms ahead, a monument to my ambition, my isolation, my father’s legacy I both fight against and am inevitably shaped by.
We pull into the private underground entrance. Victor kills the engine. The SUV parks in a stall nearby, Elijah and Maya emerging, scanning the underground garage before nodding towards the private elevator bank.
“Usual protocols, Victor,” I say as I get out.
“Understood, sir. I’ll return for Ms. Hammond as soon as you’re secure upstairs.”
The elevator whisks me upwards insilence. No buttons. Just seamless ascent to the top floor.
My floor.
The doors slide open onto the hushed reception area outside my office suite. Tatiana is already there, standing near her minimalist desk, reviewing something on a tablet. Her sleek blonde bob is immaculate, her tailored pantsuit radiating competence.
She looks up as I approach, her expression neutral, but her eyes sharp.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackwell,” she greets me, her voice perfectly modulated.
“Tatiana.” I nod curtly and stride past her towards the heavy oak doors of my inner sanctum.
She calls after me and I pause to listen: “Your schedule for today is confirmed. Executive team call at nine regarding the Petrov acquisition. Site visit at eleven for the Hudson Yards redevelopment proposal. Preliminary meeting with the legal team re: Project Nightingale at two. Your father requested a…”
