Page 29 of Forbidden Billionaire (Titans #7)
Chapter Twenty-Two
Xavier
I push open the glass door to my office, expecting the silence I’ve grown used to on a Saturday. Instead, the light’s already on, and Seraphina’s already at her desk.
She’s curled over her laptop, a high-powered to-go coffee clutched like a lifeline. Her hair’s in a haphazard bun, and her blazer’s draped over the back of the chair like it’s been there for hours. It probably has.
I remain standing there, but she doesn’t even look up.
Finally I clear my throat. “Morning.”
Blinking, she looks up. “Xavier.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
She blows out a breath and reaches for the coffee. Then she twirls the cup and frowns.
It’s already empty? Before seven a.m.? What the hell time had she gotten here?
“Why are you here so early?”
The delicate skin beneath her cornflower blue eyes is bruised, as if she hasn’t rested at all.
Part of that is probably my fault. I’ve kept her up late a lot of nights with my insatiable need for her.
But we’ve been logging a lot of hours on the Lockhart deal, in addition to other corporate demands on her time.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I finally gave up the battle.”
“Something bothering you?”
“Yeah. It is.”
That doesn’t bode well.
She taps her fingers against the empty cup. “We need to talk.”
Dread slams into me, fast and hard. How many times, and from how many women, have I heard that line before?
Is this the where do we stand landmine, with all its emotional shrapnel?
But Seraphina isn’t an ordinary woman.
And she’d never bring something like that up, not when we’re two days away from the board meeting where I have to announce the findings of our due diligence and recommend we move forward on the Lockhart deal. Or we pull the plug.
Though, if I’m honest, if she doesn’t open a conversation about our personal relationship, I will. Next week. Maybe as early as Tuesday. Because yesterday—the way she looked at me, saw me, after Celeste left and gave me every damn thing I needed—I realized something.
I don’t want her Seraphina as just my assistant.
I want her as my wife.
Unless I can claim her, possess her, brand her as mine in every way that counts, I’ll lose my ever-loving mind.
And she has no clue that she wrings me out emotionally.
“I need your eyes on this, Xavier. Because maybe I’ve got it all wrong.” She scowls at her empty cup. “I hope I have it all wrong.”
She spins her laptop toward me and drags a stack of printed spreadsheets to the edge of the desk. Her voice is steady, but frustration is brewing behind her composure.
“Let’s grab coffee.”
“Yeah. I need some.”
“And food?”
She stares off into the distance. “Maybe. I’m not sure I remembered to eat last night.”
“Pretty sure you skipped lunch too.”
“Did I?”
Maybe not. My brain was swimming in so many sexual endorphins after I fucked her in my office that the building could have burned down around us without me noticing.
“Look. The coffee cart in the lobby is open. They have sandwiches, breakfast burritos.”
“Sounds good. You grabbing them for us?”
“No.” I shake my head. “You are.”
“But—”
“You need a break. Need to stretch and move your body. Need a fresh perspective.”
She tries a second time, glancing down at a spreadsheet. “But?—”
“Look, Seraphina. I need coffee. Have to have a look at what you’re working on so I can come up to speed.”
“We should just push through. Brew some coffee here.”
“Get yourself a mocha. You need the calories, if not the caffeine. And I want an Americano. Those pods”—I glance at the piles on her desk. Is there actually any organization to it?—“are not going to get us through this.”
“I’ve been modeling projections?—”
“Seraphina.” I sharpen my tone. “Listen to me. Go get us food and coffee. I’ll grab bottled water. I’ll look at whatever you want, and we’ll start fresh when you get back.”
“You’re being ridiculous. This won’t take long.”
“And you’ve been at it how many hours?”
She rakes back hair from her forehead. “Since about two.”
“Boss’s orders. Get out of here.” When she doesn’t move, I tip my head to the side. “Now.”
She huffs out an annoyed sigh, and she accompanies it with an eyeroll. If this wasn’t so important, I’d give her the spanking she’s clearly asking for. She probably needs it to settle in. But I’d bet a million dollars, she’d shoot daggers instead of thanking me.
Instead I swallow my smile. “The sooner you get that handled, the sooner we can dive in.”
That seems to convince her.
She stands, and I see she’s in soft, snuggly jeans and sneakers. Fuck me. Her jeans highlight her curves and femininity.
Even though she’s completely covered, they’re indecent.
Or maybe it’s just because I can’t get enough of her. “The way you dressed should be illegal.”
She blinks, as if she can’t keep up with my change of conversation. Her response is prim and proper. “I’m dressed to work, Mr. Blackwell.”
Truthfully she could be wearing a potato sack, and I’d still be distracted by her.
“Go,” I tell her. Before I change my mind.
By the time she returns, I’m deep in her spreadsheets.
“You’re looking at the Lockhart acquisition scenarios.”
I nod, accepting the Americano and a breakfast burrito. “Excellent choice.” It’s spicy and enormous.
After trying to organize things, she frowns. “This might be easier in the conference room.”
“Agree.”
Within minutes, we’re relocated and settled.
She begins by clicking through her dashboard. It’s color-coded, annotated, structured with a precision that could only come from a brain that didn’t stop at midnight.
“I ran the financials based on several integration models.” She taps a few keys. “Best-case, moderate, and underperforming scenarios.”
I nod, watching the graphs flicker.
“But something’s off.”
I angle closer. “Define off. ”
“I built out cost synergies assuming standard vertical integration—shared ops, merged HR, marketing alignment, and tech platforms. On paper, we should gain economies of scale within eighteen months.”
She flicks to another tab. “But when you apply Lockhart’s Q3 trailing twelve-months against our EBITDA margins, the lift isn’t there. Not even in the moderate scenario.”
“Which means?”
“It means the deal’s not just underwhelming—it’s potentially catastrophic if their projected cash flow is exaggerated.”
My blood ices.
“Walk me through it.”
Her voice tightens. “They’ve overstated asset performance.
The depreciation on their mid-tier properties is buried in non-operating expenses.
And their liquidity ratios are artificially boosted by short-term vendor deferrals.
It’s window dressing, Xavier. They’re masking a cash flow problem. A big one.”
Fuck.
“Are you sure?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I triple-checked. Even adjusted for seasonality, the numbers don’t align.
I ran Monte Carlo simulations based on volatility bands from their last five quarterly earnings.
Unless we see significant outperformance from their top-performing assets or an injection of new capital, we’re looking at negative ROI for at least three fiscal quarters. Maybe more.”
I scrub my hand down my face. “What about their luxury holdings? Isn’t that where the real value is supposed to come from?”
She hesitates. “That’s the other problem.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t tell me.”
“They’re overleveraged. The Flagstone project in Montecito? They’re financing it at prime plus four, and the occupancy rate isn’t breaking fifty-eight percent. Their burn rate exceeds forecast by ten percent quarter over quarter.”
“So we’re buying a gilded albatross.”
She flinches. “If the acquisition goes through without adjustments to valuation or contingencies, yes.”
I lean back in my chair, staring at her like I’ve never seen her before. She just unearthed what months of due diligence missed.
“You were right,” I say quietly. “Back then. About the numbers.”
Her lashes flutter, and for a moment, I see the ghost of that intern in the boardroom again. Brave. Brilliant. Betrayed.
“I never wanted to be.”
And I don’t want her to be right this time either.
“But no one would listen.”
Not sure that I want to now, either.
Eighteen months, maybe two years of work down the drain. This is some bullshit.
“Walk me through every single assumption in your model,” I say. “We’ll reforecast, reprice the deal, renegotiate terms if we have to. And if Lockhart tries to screw me?—”
“I’ll walk you through it. Maybe I missed something that you’ll catch.” She shrugs. “After all, you’ve been looking at this for a lot longer than I have.”
I scrub my hand down my face. “Let’s dig in.”
“If I’m right…”
Her unfinished words hang in the air.
With the bullshit financials, Lockhart has already tried to screw me. And she can’t recommend we close the deal.
Then there’s the other part. Marchand scoops in and pays a fraction of what I was offering.
Damn it to fucking hell.
By ten p.m., I see the same thing she does.
“I’m sorry, Xavier. I hate this for you.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I exhale. I have no other choice than to make a call I don’t want to make.