Page 86 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
“Lucy, I…” I start, the confession hovering on my lips, raw and terrifyingly real.
Suddenly, the doors behind us burst open. One of the event organizers, looking flustered, hurries towards us.
“Mr. Blackwell! Thank goodness I found you.” The man wrings his hands. “They’re ready for you. The donation announcements. Your speech…”
The moment shatters. The confession dies unspoken. The walls slam back into place, rebuilt in an instant.
The public persona reasserts itself and I turn away from Lucy, away from the vulnerability I almost showed her, back towards the ballroom, towards the waiting microphone and the expected performance.
“Duty calls,” I say, my voice once again cool and controlled. I offer Lucy my arm, the perfect picture of a powerful man and his strategically advantageous partner.
But as we walk back into the light and noise, back into the heart of the viper pit, my unvoiced confession hangs between us, heavier than any unspoken words.
Fuck.
28
Lucy
The comfy leather seats of Christopher’s ridiculously oversized SUV limo feel like a different world compared to the tension of the gala ballroom. Outside, the city lights streak past. Inside, the silence is thick enough to spread on toast.
Well, it’s not completely quiet. There’s the low hum of the engine, the whisper of tires on wet pavement, and the soft squeak of expensive leather as Dominic Rossi, practically radiating smug amusement, shifts slightly in the seat opposite.
Christopher hasn’t said much since we left the balcony. He just… watches me. His eyes, those intense blue eyes, haven’t left my face.
It’s unnerving.
Flattering.
Terrifying.
Mostly terrifying.
Seriously, blink occasionally. You look like a very handsome, very intense owl about to dissect its prey.
Which, okay, maybe I am?
His security detail, Elijah Reeves and MayaChen, sit facing us, looking utterly bored, as if chaperoning billionaires and their strategically advantageous plus-ones is just another Saturday night.
How do they do it? Maintain that level of professional indifference while their boss is practically setting fire to his date with his eyeballs? Must be in the training manual. Section 4: Ignoring Extreme Sexual Tension.
Dominic finally breaks the silence, leaning forward slightly. “Impressive speech, Chris. Stirring stuff. Really hit those ‘responsible development’ notes.” He smirks. “And standing up to Daddy Dearest? Quite the fireworks display. Better than the actual gala entertainment.”
Christopher grunts noncommittally, his gaze still fixed on me. It makes my skin prickle. My cheeks feel hot.
Stop blushing, you idiot. He’s just looking. Probably calculating my company’s debt-to-equity ratio in his head.
“It was a very… direct approach,” I offer diplomatically, trying not to squirm under Christopher’s stare. “You certainly made your position clear.”
Understatement of the century. He basically drew a line in the sand, dared his father to cross it, and then stood squarely on my side.
My heart does a stupid little flip-flop just thinking about it.
He chose me.
Publicly.
Over his father.
