Page 110 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

“Try it,” I challenge him, holding his gaze. No fear. Just ice. “Rally your support. Make your move. See what happens when you try to wrest control of the companyIbuilt.” Let him see the steel he himself helped forge, now turned against him.

His face twists in fury. He knows I’m not the same son who used to crave his approval. That power dynamic has shifted. Irrevocably.

“You’re choosing her, and that trainwreck of a company, over loyalty? Over family? Over everything I taught you?” His voice trembles with rage.

“I’m choosing my own path,” I reply evenly. “Something you never had the courage to do.”

I turn and walk out, not waiting for his response. The weight of his anger follows me, but it doesn’t touch me. Not anymore. Just a cold resolve settles in its place.

He wants a war?

He’ll get one.

But it will be on my terms.

My battlefield.

Back in the city,the adrenaline from the confrontation leaves me wired, restless. The victory feels hollow. Defying him is necessary, but it doesn’t bring peace. Only the prospect of more conflict.

I find myself calling Lucy’s number before I consciously decide to.

“Hammond,” her voice answers, sounding tired but steady. Interim CEO Hammond.

Fuck, I like the sound of that, even if she doesn’t yet.

“Busy?” I ask.

“I’m at the hospital. Why?”

“How’s your dad?”

“He’s doing well,” she replies. “He’s more awake now. We were able to talk. It was nice. I think he’s actually going to get through this.”

“I’m so happy to hear that,” I tell her. “I mean that.”

“I know you do.” I can almost hear her smile over the line.

“Do you fell like dinner. At my place? Emilia’s left something. Staff’s gone for the night.”

A pause. “Okay,” she says softly. “Give me an hour.”

She arrives looking…professional but weary. The weight of her new role, her father’s health, the SPE Sword of Damocles hanging over her head… it’s etched around her eyes. But she still manages a small smile when she sees me.

We eat in the kitchen. Not the formal dining room. Just leaning against the huge marble island, picking at the gourmet meal Emilia left meticulously prepared in the fridge.

It feels strangely domestic. Comfortable.

We talk about her day, the board meeting, the initial steps she’s taking as interim CEO.

She complains about the sheer volume of paperwork, the endless meetings.

She doesn’t complain about the responsibility, though. She’s rising to it, just like I knew she would.

Then the conversation shifts. She asks about my day.

And somehow, standing here in the low light of the kitchen, the city glittering outside, the usual defenses feel… burdensome.

I tell her.