Page 40 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

I spend the next hour prowling the main living area. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic, almost obscene view of the city lights glittering like scattered diamonds below. Usually, it’s just a backdrop. Tonight, I see it through potentially judgmental eyes.

I check the arrangement of the minimalist furniture. Ensure the lighting is subtly dramatic. Glance at the curated art on the walls, a mix of modern abstracts and some surprisingly classical pieces James Whitfield helped source.

My custom cologne, the one from Florence, feels almost too calculated.

Jesus Christ, Blackwell. Get a grip. She’s coming here to discuss corporate espionage, not critique your decorating choices. And it’s not like we’re going to have sex.

Of course not. This is a business meeting. Not a date.

Elijah Reeves, my head of security, gives me a ping on my private line. “Lucy Hammond is on the way up.”

I thank him, and after disconnecting feel a sudden spike in anxiety.

What the fuck?

I make a fist, and clamp a mental cage tightly around the anxiety.

I have nothing to be fucking nervous about. I’m the ruler here. She’s enteringmydomain.

The private elevator dings softly, announcing her arrival directly into the foyer.

Lucy steps out. She looks… tired. But determined. Dressed in another one of those tailored sheath dresses, this time a deep burgundy. Her honey-blonde hair is pulled back, emphasizing the clean lines of her jaw and the slight shadows under her eyes. She’s clutching a leather portfolio like it contains state secrets. Which, considering Morgan Weiss, it might.

Her eyes sweep the space and take in the view. The double-height ceilings. The art. There’s a flicker of… appreciation? But it’s quickly masked. She doesn’t gawk. She doesn’t gasp.

Okay. Maybe slightly disappointing. Or maybe refreshing?

Fuck knows.

“Blackwell,” she says, her voice steady.

“Ms. Hammond. Welcome.” I gesture towards the main living area, deliberately keeping my toneneutral. “Drink?”

“Water would be fine, thank you.”

I pour her a glass from the already prepared carafe on the sidebar. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. A charge passes between us. A fuckingcharge.

Or maybe it’s just my imagination working overtime again.

She walks towards the windows, gazing out at the city. “Quite the view.”

“It serves its purpose.” Noncommittal. I’m not going to show my cards quite so easily.

She turns back, a small, almost challenging smile playing on her lips. “It’s nice, Christopher. Very… high up.” She takes a sip of water. “But my best friend married Gideon King. You kind of get desensitized to billionaire penthouses after a while. They start to all look the same.”

Okay. Point taken. She’s not easily intimidated by wealth. Good to know. Annoying, but good to know. It reinforces she’s here for substance, not spectacle.

And maybe deflates my ego just a tiny, insignificant bit. Bastard Gideon King. Always has to one up me, even by proxy.

“My home office is this way,” I say, gesturing down a corridor lined with more understated art. “More conducive to work than staring at the skyline.”

The office is less ostentatious than the main living area. Still large, still with a killer view, but dominated by a massive dark wood desk, multiple monitors displaying market data, and comfortable leather chairs. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with first editions and business texts. It’s a working space, albeit a luxurious one.

“Right.” Lucy gets straight to business, taking a seat and placing her portfolio on the desk. “You sent me the file on Weiss.” It’s a statement, not a question.

I sit opposite her. “Did I?” No need to admit anything directly. Plausible deniability.

She gives me a look that says ‘don’t bullshit me.’ “The timing was… convenient. And the data confirmed my suspicions. Morgan’s been systematically undervaluing assets in his reports to the board. Building a case for liquidation.”