Page 42 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

“Put that down.” My voice is tight. Harsh. Stripped of any warmth.

Lucy flinches, her eyes widening at my tone. She looks down at the photo, then back at me, confusion and concern warring on her face. “Christopher, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Just put it down,” I repeat, forcing the words through clenched teeth. Control. Get control back. Don’t let her see. Weakness. Sentiment is weakness.

She carefully places the frame back on the desk, face down this time. Her gaze is fixed on me, searching. Waiting. That non judgmental quiet she possesses.

Fuck. She saw it. She saw the reaction. The mask didn’t just slip, it fucking shattered for a second.

Why does it matter? Why should I care whatshesees?

But I do. The thought of her pity, her speculation… it’s intolerable. Better to offer a sliver of the truth than let her imagine god knows what. Rip the bandage off. Quickly.

I turn away and stand, walking towards the window, needing distance. Needing the cold glass against my forehead. “My mother,” I say, my voice low. “She left when I was eight. Couldn’t handle my father. His…control.” I pause, because that word tastes like ash. “She started a new life. Never looked back. Something I... could never do.”

Silence stretches behind me. I brace myself for awkward condolences. Empty platitudes. The usual bullshit people offer when confronted with uncomfortable truths.

Instead, Lucy just says, quietly, “That must have been incredibly difficult, Christopher.”

No pity. No judgment. Just simple, quiet empathy.

It knocks the breath out of me more effectively than any attack could. I turn back slowly. She’s still sitting by the desk, watching me. Her expression is open. Soft. It’s dangerously disarming.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel… seen. Not as Blackwell the billionaire. Not as the Executioner. Not even as Mark Blackwell’s son. Just… me. The eight year old kid whose mother walked away.

And the relief of it, the sheer unexpected release of that tiny admission into the quiet space between us, is terrifying. And maybe, a little liberating.

The atmosphere in the room has irrevocably shifted. The documents, Morgan Weiss, the fate of Hammond & Co… it all fades slightly into the background. Replaced by this fragile, unexpected flicker of human connection.

What the fuck ishappening?

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Therewasno plan for this.

And the most unsettling part?

I don’t entirely hate it.

14

Lucy

Istumble out of the taxi and into my apartment building lobby feeling like I just went twelve rounds in a ring I didn’t even know I’d stepped into. One minute we’re dissecting Morgan Weiss’s financial treachery like business ninjas, the next he’s dropping bombs about his mother abandoning him?

Talk about whiplash.

My apartment feels blessedly normal. Messy stacks of art books, a half-finished sketch on my easel, the faint scent of jasmine from my diffuser. It’s sanity.

Or my version of it.

I kick off my heels and collapse onto the sofa.

He looked so… broken. For a split second. Before the impenetrable Blackwell mask slammed back down. The Executioner, the ruthless dealmaker, suddenly just looked like a little boy who’d been deeply hurt. And the fact that he actuallytoldme, admitted that vulnerability out loud… it messes with my head more than the kiss did. The kiss was confusing heat and questionable impulse. This felt…

I don’t even know. Real, maybe?

Dangerously real.