Page 49 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

The mask is down. Go figure.

For the next hour, we work. And it’s… amazing. Annoyingly amazing. He doesn’t take over. He actually listens. He asks sharp, insightful questions that force me to clarify my points both on the counter-proposal and the underlying financial mess.

He points out weaknesses in my arguments, not to tear them down, but to help me strengthen them. He suggests different ways to frame the data, focusing on potential rather than just past failures.

He even offers surprisingly non-judgmental perspectives on navigating legacy financial issues during acquisitions, treating the ‘skeletons’ as problems to be solved rather than reasons to condemn. He actually respects my ideas, building on them instead of dismissing them.

It’s the kind of collaboration I’ve always craved, the kind I never got from my father or dismissive colleagues.

And I’m getting it from my supposed enemy.

The world is officially upside down.

He makes a quick, discreet call at one point. Low voice, clipped tones. Something about “perimeter status” and “ETA zero thirty.” I assume it’s his security detail lurking outside.

Right. Because normal people bring tactical support when offering to help with financial modeling and damage control.

It’s a jarring reminder of who he is, the layers of security and power that surround him. But then he hangs up and turns back to my messy spreadsheets, instantly focused again.

We finish the pasta, and oh my god, it’s heavenly. Afterward, we refine the slides of the counter-proposal strategy. The plan is ten times stronger now. Clearer. More compelling. And with far less power in Christopher’s hands. I’m actually surprised at how much leeway he’s willing to offer me. Maybe I was wrong about him after all.

And then we return to the financial ‘exorcism,’ and as we come up with a final plan, it feels slightly less terrifying with his analytical brain dissecting the problems alongside mine. Hope, a dangerous little butterfly, starts fluttering in my chest. Maybe… maybe we can actually pull this off.

“Okay,” I say, leaning back in my chair, rubbing my tired eyes. “I think… I think that’s actually a viable strategy. For tackling the internal mess.”

“It’s more than viable, Lucy,” Christopher says, his voice quiet beside me. I turn to look at him. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable in the dim office light. “You’ve done impressive work holding this together and figuring out a path forward under impossible circumstances. Your father doesn’t appreciate what he has in you.”

His unexpected praise sends a wave of heat rising up my neck.

“Thanks,” I mumble, looking away, fiddling witha pen. “Just trying to… you know. Keep the lights on. And maybe avoid prison for Dad.”

Okay, maybe too much honesty there.

“Why are you really doing this, Christopher?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I look back at him, meeting his intense blue gaze. “The file on Morgan. The flowers. Showing up here tonight with dinner and advice. This isn’t the Executioner playbook. Why help me instead of just waiting for me to fail so you can pick up the pieces for pennies on the dollar?”

He holds my gaze for a long moment, the silence stretching. I can almost see the calculations happening behind his eyes. Then, he gives a small sigh, a surprising crack in the usual mask.

“Because,” he says slowly, “watching my father and Weiss try to manipulate this situation purely out of spite… is a game I’m no longer interested in playing. And because...” He pauses now, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. “Because what you’re trying to build here, trying to save… despite everything stacked against you… I respect it. Maybe more than I respect the way I’ve done business in the past.”

Wow. Okay. Real, unvarnished honesty.

It hits me harder than any power play could. Herespectsme. Not Lucy Hammond, the heiress. Not Lucy Hammond, the potential business asset.

Me.

My work.

My fight.

“Oh,” is all I can manage. My brain feels utterly short-circuited.

“And maybe,” he adds, his voice dropping lower, “I find your relentless optimism… irritatingly compelling.” He leans forward slightly and the space between us shrinks perilously. I can smell his cologne again, that sophisticated blend of cedar and pepper. It mixes with the lingering scent of truffle pasta and stale coffee, creating a weirdly intimate scent.

My heart starts hammering again, but this time it has nothing to do with investor presentations. It’s him. The proximity. The intensity in his gaze. The memory of his kiss at the gala, the unexpected vulnerability in his office… it all swirls together into a confusing, potent cocktail of attraction and apprehension.

I quickly reach into my desk and pop a breath mint with trembling hands.

When he gives me that devastating smirk in response, I force a shrug.