Page 32 of Forbidden Billionaire (Titans #7)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Xavier

Sweat clings to my skin, a slick sheen born of a punishing workout meant to silence the storm in my chest. It’s Friday—four days since I crushed Seraphina and watched her walk out of my office.

More pissed than I was even then, I shove through the glass door of my office, muscles burning, each step a reminder of the weight I can’t outrun. The Lockhart deal—its ink barely dry—is a wound, a particular brand of failure seared into my pride.

The office—with new people hurriedly shoved into cubicles—hums with a brittle tension, my team moving like ghosts, their eyes darting, their voices hushed. They skirt around me, sensing the volatility beneath my tailored suit, the live grenade I’ve become.

I’m colder than ever, my orders sharp as shattered glass, my voice a blade carving through egos and half-baked reports.

A junior analyst flinches when my shadow crosses his desk.

Good. Let them fear me. Fear is cleaner than the void Seraphina left behind, a hollow ache that no amount of rage can fill.

I walk down the hallway from the elevator, half expecting to be greeted by the scent of vanilla and salvation.

Instead…there’s nothing.

I push open the door to the reception area of my suite.

Jessica. Is that her name? She’s my second assistant this week.

Monday, I made do with no one after Seraphina left.

Tuesday, a blonde showed up, and I burned through her in single, blistering shift.

Jessica was an executive assistant at Lockhart, and I figured bringing her over was a good move.

I was wrong. She lounges at her desk, scrolling on her phone with an air of practiced indifference. Her purse is on her desk, and she barely lifts her gaze when I enter.

Fuck. She doesn’t even pretend to care.

“Heading to lunch.”

I might not mind, except for the fact she has strict work hours, eight to five, Monday through Friday. And she was forty-five minutes late. I check my watch. She’s been here a whole two and a half hours before walking out the door again?

On her desk, the message light blinks on her phone, repeatedly, damning her.

“Mind grabbing me a coffee first?” I’ve been living off whiskey at night, and caffeine to keep me going all day.

She stands and drops her phone in her purse. “I’m meeting a friend, and I can’t be late.”

Of course she can’t.

The air in here feels sterile, clinical, stripped of any warmth—no trace of vanilla to haunt me, no echo of Seraphina’s quiet efficiency.

“Coffee cart’s downstairs. You can call in an order. Or, you know, make your own cup.”

She’s got her hand on the doorknob before I react.

“Don’t come back.”

Jessica doesn’t respond. The sharp click of her heels fades into the hum of the office, leaving me with nothing but my own fury, coiled and useless.

I don’t need coffee.

I need Seraphina—her fierce gaze that could pin me in place, the way she’d have my Americano waiting on my desk, her own mocha creamer leaving a faint, sweet trace in the air.

Frustrated as fuck, I figure out how to check the voice mail, make a mental note to return calls and cancel appointments. Then I dial HR. Again.

Peeling off my wet workout shirt, I head into my executive washroom.

In the shower, alone, the memories I’ve been trying to outrun catch up.

Her desperate pleas echo in my ears. Her face—pale, shattered, those cornflower eyes brimming with hurt—cuts me every time I close my eyes.

“You have to believe me.”

But how could I?

Two hours later, yet another assistant is seated behind the reception desk. At least she answers the phone when it rings.

But when Celeste arrives and breezes right past her, all she does is shrug.

I barely have time to steel myself before the fixer throws open my door. She strides in, her blazer as crisp as her judgment. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, rake over me, missing nothing. She doesn’t waste a moment on a polite greeting. “Another scandal, Xavier?”

I blink. “What the fuck?”

She pulls up a website on her phone and pushes the device toward me.

PREDATOR KING CHEWS UP ANOTHER INNOCENT VICTIM.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The assistant I fired the first day went straight to the tabloids. Probably got more money from selling r story than she did in her severance package.

“You blew through your retainer. I’m going to need another six figures.”

Fuck me to tears. Can this week get any worse?

“If you want to hold onto your cash, you’ll need to stop being a PR disaster.” With that, she drops into a chair. Again, as always, uninvited.

“You look like shit, Xavier.”

“Fuck off.” Papers are scattered across the desk like fallen leaves.

The Lockhart financials glare from my screen.

Now that I’m the unhappy owner of the company, I see the truth.

They’re overleveraged, bleeding cash, a house of cards Seraphina warned me about.

And there are expenses I can’t account for. “I need a forensic accountant.”

“That’ll cost you.”

Of course it will.

Celeste continues. “Reynolds is gone.”

Tuesday, he’d called in and scheduled some PTO. The timing sucked. We need all hands on deck for the transition, bumpy as it is. “What do you mean, gone?”

“He’s in Mexico with his wife. Left on a red-eye last night. Bought a place, cash.”

The actual hell?

“His apartment has been cleaned out.”

My gut twists. My empire—built on years of ruthless precision—is crumbling, and I’m alone at the helm, clutching the wheel of a sinking ship. “Find out what the hell is happening.”

She studies me, her silence heavier than any words. Her gaze strips me bare, sees the fracture beneath my polished exterior.

“You made a hell of a mistake. Fix it.” She walks to the door, then stops to fire another salvo. “Stay out of the damn headlines. A week would be good.”

I don’t tell her about firing Jessica. If she goes to Scandalicious too…

Then she’s gone, and I’m alone again with my regrets. Celeste said I made a hell of a mistake. I scoff. Which one is she referring to? Right now, they’re coming at me from every direction.

I call Walt. Does he know about Reynolds? But he doesn’t answer, and I stab my screen to end the call without leaving a message.

At some point, my assistant leaves. It occurs to me I don’t even know this one’s name.

Without me noticing, afternoon fades into sunset, then dark.

It’s after eleven when I admit I’m getting nothing done and summon Vionna. By the time I exit the elevator, she’s waiting for me.

She navigates the nearly empty streets toward my hotel. I’d been planning to move back to my house, but at least there are people at the Sterling Uptown. And I can pretend I’m not all alone.

And suddenly I can’t face walking into a sterile, empty room where the image of Seraphina sleeping in my bed replays on an endless loop.

I lean forward. “Change of plans.”

In the rearview mirror, she meets my gaze. “Sir?”

“The Braes.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m at the bar.

“The usual, Mr. Blackwell?”

Might as well support Bonds’s empire while mine is crumbling.

Moments later, Lane Marchand slides onto the stool beside me, his grin sharp as a switchblade. Jesus. He’s the last person on the planet I want to face.

“Congratulations on Lockhart, Blackwell.”

The bartender slides the whiskey in front of me, and I down it in one drink.

“Fucking terrible call.”

I grip my glass, knuckles whitening, the burn of the liquor no match for the sting of his words. “You’re just pissed you missed out.”

“Hell no.” Lane’s laugh is sharp, knowing. “Wasn’t worth half what you paid.”

I wince.

“I’d have grabbed it for pennies if you’d walked. They were desperate to sell. Beaumont needed the cash.” His eyes glint, savoring my misery like a fine wine. “You look terrible, man.”

I signal for a second whiskey.

“Enjoy the hangover.” Hands in his pockets, he saunters off, leaving me with the bitter truth I can’t escape.

I overpaid for a sinking ship, ignored Seraphina’s warnings, and let my pride blind me. Her voice echoes in my mind—calm, steady, pleading. “The numbers don’t add up, Xavier.”

I see her face, the earnestness in her eyes.

Didn’t she deserve to defend herself?

Haunted by that question, by her, I have a third whiskey.

Once the bar closes, I head to the penthouse.

The penthouse is a crypt, Houston’s skyline glittering through the floor-to-ceiling glass like a cruel mockery of my success.

The bed looms in the corner, sheets pristine, untouched, but once more, I see her there—one shoe dangling off her foot, her skirt riding up to reveal the soft curve of her thigh.

The memory of her lingers in my memory, warm and fleeting, a stabbing reminder of everything I’ve lost.

Lost?

That’s bullshit, and I know it. I’d thrown it all away.

I pour another whiskey, the bottle heavier than it should be, my hand unsteady as the amber liquid sloshes into the glass.

My father’s watch glints on the nightstand, its ticking a relentless reminder of his mistakes. Did he feel this when he drove my mother away? This hollow, gnawing ache, like he’d ripped out his own heart and called it victory?

I was so sure I’d never be him, so certain I’d built something unassailable. But here I am, staring into the same abyss, my choices carving out the same wounds.

I sink onto the couch, the city’s pulse a faint, mocking echo of my own.

The truth is a blade in my gut: sending her away was the biggest mistake of my life.

I had a choice, and I made the wrong one.

My phone sits silent on the coffee table, its screen dark—no texts, no calls, because she’s not coming back.

I don’t deserve her to.

Torturing myself, I pull up the video she’d sent me that night after she met her friends for happy hour.

The video is high-definition, and I see every detail of her as she removed her clothes and breathlessly responded to my every command.

My name sounds sweet on her lips. Her tiny moans make my cock hard. And her shuddering climax is the stuff of erotic dreams.

The video ends, but my mind supplies more… The image of her standing in my office, voice cracking with emotion.

And now, in the quiet of this empty penthouse, I’m left with nothing but the weight of what I’ve lost—a kingdom of glass and no one left to rule it with.