Page 1 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

Lucy

Ismooth down my pencil skirt for the tenth time, my palms annoyingly damp. My reflection in a darkened screen shows a reasonably put-together woman. Honey-blonde hair behaving itself in loose waves? Check. Business-chic ensemble screaming competence I don’t entirely feel? Check. Minimalist jewelry adding just the right touch of ‘I have taste, not just my Daddy’s name?’ Check. Bright, fresh-faced makeup hopefully hiding the fact I barely slept? Debatable, but we’re rolling with it.

I pop a mint. Strategic partnerships require fresh breath.

Probably.

Around me, people crowd around the sleek booths of the tech expo, the whole place humming with a palpable energy that’s part innovation and part naked ambition. My own ambition feels more like sheer, teeth-grinding panic right now.

Then I see it. The Blackwell Innovations booth. It’s less a booth, more a small sovereign nation of brushed steel and glowing blue logos.

And there he is, the emperor of it all, holding court in the center.

Christopher Blackwell.

Oh, good grief. He’s even more…him… in person.The pictures didn’t do him justice. Or maybe they did him too much justice, making him seem like a mere mortal instead of… this.

Tall, annoyingly broad-shouldered in a killer suit, dark hair with just a hint of distinguished silver at the temples. He’s demonstrating some headset thing, gesturing with sharp, precise movements. A crowd hangs on his every word, nodding like a row of bobbleheads.

He turns, scanning the expo floor with an air of casual ownership. His eyes, sharp, analytical, and an absurdly arresting shade of blue, lock onto mine.

It’s like a physical jolt. A weird, stomach-flipping,oh-crapkind of jolt.

My breath hitches.

My brain, usually my staunchest ally in awkward situations, decides to short-circuit.

Nope. No. Absolutely not. He’s the enemy.

The very attractive, annoyingly competent enemy who wants to dismantle everything you care about.

Get a grip, Hammond!

My fingers find the silver bracelet on my wrist, twisting it nervously. Heat rushes to my cheeks.

Damn it, not the cheeks, too! I’m worse than Ava!

He holds my gaze for a beat too long, a flicker of something unreadable in those blue depths. Then a slow, almost imperceptible smirk touches his lips before he turns back to his audience, resuming his spiel like nothing happened.

But somethingdidhappen. My body decided theman actively plotting my family’s corporate demise is… hot.

Fantastic. Another complication in this dumpster fire of a situation.

I force myself to watch him. He moves with a deliberate grace, exudes a confidence that’s both infuriating and undeniably compelling. He laughs easily with a potential client, clapping the man on the shoulder, but his eyes remain calculating. He doesn’t just sell tech. He sells power.

Plan B was to maybe approach him through lawyers, send a carefully worded email, try some sort of formal, distanced negotiation. But seeing him now, seeing the way he commands attention, the predatory gleam in his eye… no. That feels way too weak.

Hammond & Co. might be wounded, but we’re not dead yet. And I’m sure as hell not going down without looking the shark right in the eye.

I straighten, trying to channel confidence rather than the anxiety churning inside. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Take a deep breath.

Just put one foot in front of the other...

And then a strangely familiar voice cuts through the buzz. “Lucy? Is that you?”

I turn. “Amir?!” Relief washes over me. I’m thrilled for any excuse to delay the inevitable.

It’s Amir Khan, my partner-in-crime from high school drama club and survivor of Mrs. Davison’s brutal geometry class. We’ve kept in touch sporadically over the nine years since graduation, mostly through chaotic group chats and the occasional shared meme.