Page 11 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

Weiss raises an eyebrow but apparently decides pushing further isn’t wise. He gives a small, insincere nod, then walks out, closing the door softly behind him.

Silence descends. I stare at my father, the man I’ve idolized and tried so hard to protect. The weight of his legacy, his fear, his mistakes. It all feels so crushing.

“I have to go,” I finally say, my voice flat. “I have a meeting to get to.”

“Lucy, wait. We need to talk about this. About the offer…”

“What’s there to talk about, Dad?” I grab my briefcase, stuffing the damning folder inside alongside my now-useless presentation. “You lied. You compromised my position before I even walkedin the door. Whatever happens now… it’s based on the reality you tried to hide.”

I walk out without looking back, the sting of betrayal a fresh wound alongside the familiar ache of inadequacy.

Way to go, Dad. Might as well justhandthe predator the ammunition he needs.

The taxi ride downtown feels like a descent into the underworld. The city flashes past in a blur of gray concrete and hurried faces. My stomach churns.

I pull out my compact, checking my reflection. Pale, eyes too bright, a definite blush lingering high on my cheekbones.

Fantastic. Nothing screams ‘savvy negotiator’ like looking like you’re about to burst into tears.

I take a shaky breath, reapplying lip gloss with a hand that isn’t quite steady. The faint scent of my bergamot and jasmine perfume feels like a flimsy shield.

Blackwell Tower looms ahead, a sleek monolith of glass and steel piercing the clouds. It screams money, power, and unapologetic dominance. It makes the Hammond building look like a quaint relic.

Okay, maybe ‘quaint’ is generous. More like… historically significant but needs rewiring.

The taxi pulls up to the imposing entrance. My heart pounds against my ribs.

Be confident. Walk in with your head held high.

The lobby is vast, minimalist, and intimidatingly silent. Gleaming white marble floors reflect the abstract, expensive-looking sculptures dotting the place. The air conditioning hums softly, carrying a faint, almost undetectable scent. A cross between disinfectant and money. It’s the polar opposite of thefamiliar, lived-in scent of Hammond & Co. This place feels… sterile. Untouchable.

I navigate the surprisingly intense lobby security checkpoint, which feels more like airport screening than anything else, replete with metal detectors. After, I approach the massive information desk and a professionally bland receptionist looks up.

“Lucy Hammond for Christopher Blackwell,” I state, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.

The receptionist murmurs my name into a sleek headset, listens for a moment, then nods. “Ms. Cole says you may go up. Please take the private elevator bank to your right.”

“Thanks.” I head towards the indicated elevators. One set of doors slides open silently as I approach, beckoning me into a small, windowless cabin lined with dark, polished wood. I step inside, looking for the button bank… only there isn’t one. No floor numbers, no emergency call button, nothing. Just smooth, seamless walls.

What the…? Is this thing voice-activated? Do I need a secret code? Did they forget to install the controls?

Before I can lean out and ask the receptionist if this thing runs on psychic energy, the doors glide shut with a soft whoosh, sealing me inside. For a terrifying second, nothing happens. Then, with a faint hum I feel more than hear, the elevator begins its silent, rapid ascent.

My ears pop. Alone in the weirdly buttonless elevator, I smooth down my skirt for the tenth time, and adjust the strap of my briefcase. My gaze drifts upward, and I notice the security camera studying me from one corner.

Okay, Lucy. Remember who you are.You fought your way through Stern, navigated Parsons art snobs, andyou’ve been holding a legacy company together with spit and ingenuity. You can handle one arrogant billionaire.

Even if he holds all the cards. And even if looking at him makes my pulse quicken in a way that’s completely inappropriate and counterproductive.

Focus. Poker face.

The elevator doors slide open onto a silent, private office lobby. Minimalist art, expensive finishes.

Seated behind an imposing desk positioned strategically near a set of large double doors is the woman I assume must be Ms. Cole. Perfectly styled blond hair, form fitting red dress, an aura of unflappable competence.

She looks up, her expression completely neutral. She gestures gracefully towards a sleek waiting area near her desk. “Ms. Hammond. Mr. Blackwell will see you shortly. Please have a seat. May I get you anything while you wait? Water? Coffee?” Her voice is quiet but crisp.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I manage, walking towards the indicated chairs.