Page 130 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Adaptation.
Growth.
“And a crucial part of that future,” I say, scanning the crowd until my eyes find him, standing near the back, radiating quiet intensity, “is our new strategic partnership with Blackwell Innovations.”
A murmur ripples through the room. Heads turn towards Christopher.
He meets my gaze, a subtle nod of encouragement.
“Under the leadership of Christopher Blackwell,” I continue. “This partnership represents not just an investment, but a shared vision. A commitment to blending Hammond’s legacy with cutting-edge technology and sustainable development. We are incredibly excited about the possibilities ahead.”
Takethat, rumor mill.
We are united.
Officially.
Publicly.
I finish the speech, plastering a confident smile on my face as applause politely fills the room.
Step one: survive the public speaking part. Done. Step two: navigate the shark-infested waters known as mingling.
Let the games begin.
It’s exhausting. A whirlwind of air kisses, firm handshakes, and probing questions disguised as pleasantries.
Amid the sea of suits, I spot Ava looking like she just stepped off a red carpet, Gideon King firmly attached to her arm like the world’s most handsome, ridiculously wealthy security detail. Wherever they go, heads turn and conversations pause.
Ava throws me a dazzling smile and a discreet thumbs-up across the room before making a beeline for the bar, whispering something to Gideon that probably translates to: ‘Tonight is all about Lucy, let’s not hog the limelight!’ Aka, ‘Let’s get bubbly before people start asking us for loans.’
ClassicAva.
Love her.
I return to mingling.
“Lucy, darling! Thrilled to see you stepping up!” Mrs. Astorworth gushes, her diamonds flashing. “Though one does worry, such a burden for a young woman…”
Translation: Can you actually handle this, or are you just keeping the seat warm?
“Richard always spoke so highly of your artistic and photographic sensibilities,” drawls Mr. Henderson from Sterling Properties, a known competitor. “Interesting to see you applying them to… finance.”
Translation: You’re an artsy lightweight who’s in way over her head.
“Must be quite the… adjustment… working so closely with Christopher Blackwell now?” asks a rival developer, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Such different approaches to business.”
Translation: Are you sleeping with him and is he running your company now?
I smile. I deflect. I talk synergy and future-proofing. I drop Christopher’s name strategically. I try not to blush every time someone mentions him, failing spectacularly at least twice.
I feel like I’m tap-dancing through a minefield in high heels.
Through it all, I’m acutely aware of two figures shadowing my periphery. Darius Wade, looking sharp in a suit tonight, occasionally nodding to someone as if he belongs, but his eyes constantly scanning. And Rebecca Torres, blending near the bar, looking like just another guest until you notice the earpiece and the way she never quite relaxes.
My security detail, courtesy of Christopher.
Still feels utterly bizarre. Like I’m starring in a very weird, very high-stakes episode of The Bodyguard.
