Page 24 of Forbidden Billionaire (Titans #7)

Uninvited and unwelcome, Lane Marchand slides into the seat Cresthaven just vacated. Smooth. Effortless. Like he owns the place. And if it were up to him, he probably would. He’s finding out some things are not for sale, and he doesn’t like it.

“To what do I owe this displeasure?” I signal for that second Bond, despite not having finished my first. I’m going to need it.

Marchand doesn’t flinch. He never does. He simply adjusts the cuffs of his tailored jacket, cool as ever, like he’s walked off the cover of a magazine and straight into my irritation.

The man’s charm is a currency all its own—Southern polish, European schooling, and a ruthlessness you don’t see coming until it’s already slit your throat.

Marchand wants to buy Lockhart every bit as much as I do. Trouble is, he’s a little overleveraged at this point, which is what happens when you try to buy half of Houston and start in on Dallas as well.

Still, he’s not the type to bluff unless he’s holding something real. Which is exactly what makes him dangerous.

He orders an expensive champagne, as if he’s happy about something. Not a surprise. The man celebrates his own audacity.

“Heard you’re having a hard time getting the deal across the finish line.”

Ah. So he’s actually celebrating is my eventual defeat.

Classy.

“Due diligence takes time.”

He lifts his glass in mock salute. “What’s it been, years?”

Not quite. I refuse to rise to his bait.

“Some of their board members weren’t happy about the way you cozied up to Bianca Lockhart. Heard her brother, Beaumont, was pissed. Everyone’s questioning your judgment.”

Hasn’t the press moved on to something else yet? “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

“What does that matter? Perception is everything.”

“Fuck off.” I hate that he’s right about that.

He leans back like he’s settling in for a show. “You know, I offered them a number.”

Of course he did.

That’s his favorite trick. Jump the line with whispered promises, then play white knight when the dust settles. And people eat it up—because Marchand looks like a solution even when he’s the problem.

“Lockhart doesn’t want a quick win,” I say. “They want the right fit.”

He grins. And it’s a good one. The kind that could charm the hell out of a boardroom or make a senator forget who’s really in charge.

“Funny.” He sips his champagne. “That’s exactly what I told them. But I suppose we define ‘fit’ differently.”

There’s no point posturing with Marchand. He’s not the kind of man who needs to beat his chest. He’s already four moves ahead, and half the board is rigged in his favor.

“You’re not worried about overextending?” I ask casually. “Between the towers in Dallas, the international deal in Panama, and whatever mess you’re cleaning up in Singapore…”

“Concerned?” He tips his head. “I sleep like a baby, Blackwell.”

I believe him. That’s the worst part. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t sweat.

Marchand may be a bastard, but he’s the kind that survives every fire with his cuff links intact. “Still, cash is king.” Our offer is almost all cash.

He acknowledges that. “It’s not the only thing.”

I finish my first shot of the exceptional distillate.

“I heard about your new assistant.” His tone has sharpened slightly, a sliver of interest threading through. “Seraphina Hollis, right?”

Every muscle in me goes still.

“Smart hire. Quiet. Clever. Loyal, from everything I’ve heard.”

I don’t respond. Because I don’t like the way her name sounds in his mouth.

His smile widens. “If you ever get tired of her, send her my way. I could use someone who knows how to make good decisions, despite the odds being stacked against her.”

His tone is light, but the implication is not.

“I don’t share.” My voice is cool. Final.

He chuckles. “Shame. She’s got range.”

My second drink arrives, and I toss back half of it before I remind myself not to show my hand to a vulture.

Marchand rises and straightens his jacket. “Don’t fall in love, Blackwell. That’s how men like us get destroyed.”

Men like us.

Like I fucking don’t know that?

I watched my dad’s world crumble because of a woman.

Then Marchand is gone, all polish and menace, slipping through the paneled door like a ghost who never needed permission to haunt me.

Walt arrives.

Fucking finally.

He scans the bar, nods once, then tips his chin toward the back hallway. Private rooms. Where real conversations happen.

I leave my glass on the bar, unfinished and fall in step with my uncle. The walk is quiet, but each step bristles. His energy’s tight, his gait clipped.

Inside, the room is dim and spare. Just a long table, tall-backed leather chairs, and thick walls built to hold secrets.

He doesn’t sit. Just plants his hands on the back of the chair across from mine. “We’re not going to waste time pretending this is about Lockhart.”

“Shame,” I say, loosening my collar and finally taking the seat. “I had a whole speech prepared.”

Walt’s jaw tightens. “We need to talk about your assistant.”

My back goes stiff, and I already know this won’t end well.

“She was fired, Xavier. Do you remember that? Or are you too busy playing house with her to give a shit?”

“An action made in haste. Regrettable.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” He snorts. “And now you’ve brought her back— into our offices, into our business. What the fresh hell are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking she’s the best hire I’ve made in years.”

“You’re thinking with your dick.”

I narrow my eyes. “Watch your fucking tone, Uncle.” My voice cracks like a whip, and he seems to find some common sense.

Slowly he sits, but he’s still coiled. Every inch of him is on high alert, old scars and corporate paranoia.

“You’re just like your father.”

And there it is.

“Don’t,” I warn.

But he presses on. “You think I enjoy bringing Vivienne up? I don’t. But this isn’t a joke. This is how it starts. The obsession. The excuses. The blind spots. That woman—your mother—nearly destroyed this family.”

I breathe through my nose, count backward from ten, but the rage is already pushing at the edges.

“She had a gambling addiction,” I say. “She wasn’t Seraphina.”

“There’s a pattern , Xavier.” He leans forward, knuckles white on the table.

“Your father ignored the signs. Thought she was innocent. Made one mistake. Forgave her. Then it happened again, and he told himself it was slip that he could fix. By the time he woke the hell up, she’d maxed every credit line, drained the trust accounts, and used the house as collateral at the baccarat tables. ”

The image slams into me—her lipstick smudged, perfume too strong, slurring apologies.

I’d been hiding at the top of the stairs, afraid of being caught, as she and my father had yet another fight.

But that one was the final one.

“He didn’t divorce her. Know why?” Walt’s voice drops. “Because it would’ve been a scandal. Because she’d get half of what was left. So he locked her away instead. One-bedroom apartment, a monthly stipend, and her name erased from every document with the family crest.”

And every month, I still send her a check.

“You’ve never visited her.” He regards me. “Because deep down, you know you need to be cautious.”

I say nothing.

Walt pushes back from the table, eyes burning. “I won’t stand by and watch it happen again. I won’t. ”

“Seraphina isn’t her.”

“The fact you’re defending her proves we need to be on guard. Her lack of loyalty to you is a risk. I don’t give a rat’s ass what you feel—she’s not worth the price we could pay.”

“You’re wrong.”

He points a finger at me. “You’re compromised.”

I rise slowly, blood humming. “Watch your next words.”

He doesn’t blink. “I want her gone.”

“Not happening.”

His voice rises. “Goddamn it, I own part of this company too.”

“Give me your number.” I step into his space, ice cold now. “I’ll take care of that with a check tomorrow.”

Silence slams into the room.

Walt’s face drains of color. Then his eyes—a jade like my own—grow lighter, as if fury has become grief. I see it then. My uncle isn’t angry. He’s afraid.

“I’m trying to protect you.” His voice is low. And if family ties didn’t matter to me, and if I didn’t believe him, I’d lay him out. “I’ve been in your shoes, nephew. Lost half of what I had, as well. Blackwell men are cursed.”

He really believes what he’s saying.

After a moment, he shakes his head. “You’ll regret this.”

I open the door. “We’re done here.”

“Xavier—”

“Out.”

Hands balled into fists, he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

I return to the table and steeple my hands. As I stare at the empty seat where Walt sat, I try to forget the sound of my father’s voice telling the eight-year-old me to never trust a woman.

They bring you down.

After he disposed of my mother, he never saw her again.

He died early. Broken. Shattered.

I’m not him.

But right now, the rage feels familiar. Too familiar.

I want to hit something. Wreck something.

And I don’t dare see Seraphina when I’m this close to the edge.

Instead I pull out my phone and thumb to a number I haven’t needed to use in a very long time.

One ring.

Two.

Then it’s answered.

“Hawkeye.”