Page 93 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
“Denied,” I cut her off. “No visits from my father. Not today.”
A beat of silence. “As you wish, Mr. Blackwell. Regarding the Petrov call at nine…”
“Pipe it through here. And Tatiana?”
“Yes, Mr. Blackwell?”
“Hold all non-essential calls until after the site visit. I need to focus.”
“Of course.”
I step into my office, closing the door firmly behind me. The view from here is spectacular, a panoramic sweep of the city I conquered. But I ignore it.
I momentarily close the blinds, then set the gym bag down on the floor. I open it. Inside, my suit awaits, meticulously folded.
I change out of my sweats and into my power suit, but even in my business armor, I still don’t quite feel like me.
Not today.
I open the blinds with a sigh and take a seat.
My desk is clear, precisely organized by Tatiana before she left last night. On my monitors await spreadsheets and market analysis reports.
That’s my reality. Numbers don’t lie. They don’t whisper confusing promises in the dark.
They don’t make you question every damn thing you thought you knew about yourself.
I stare at the screen, but the numbers blur. My focus keeps drifting.
Back to the bedroom.
Back to emerald silk pooling on the floor.
Back to the look in her eyes when I handed her that revised proposal.
This is exactly what my father warned me against, exactly what cost me millions in the past.
Vulnerability. Weakness.
No. She’s not a vulnerability. She’s strength.
Fuck, don’t think about her. Concentrate on work.
The nine a.m. conference call is a fucking disaster, internally at least. I let Tatiana listen in, as is usual for the critical calls I take.
The Petrov deal is stalling. Bureaucratic red tape, unexpected environmental regs. Standard shit.
But my team sounds hesitant. Unsure. Looking for decisive direction. Direction I usually give without blinking.
But today? My mind keeps wandering.
I hear myself giving instructions, dissecting the problems, assigning tasks, but it feels disconnected.
Like I’m watching myself performfrom afar.
My answers are sharp enough, the strategy sound, but the usual edge isn’t there.
“Anything else?” I ask, forcing impatience into my tone.
