Page 54 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

He stands and begins to dress with swift, economical movements. Buttoning his shirt. Zipping his perfectly tailored trousers. Each action precise, detached. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge the shared intimacy of moments ago. It’s like flicking a switch. The dominant lover is gone, replaced entirely by the coolly efficient businessman.

I just lie there, on the worn leather sofa, suddenly feeling incredibly naked and exposed. My discarded clothes are tangled somewhere near my feet. The remnants of our passion are cooling on my skin. And he’s… just getting dressed. As if closing a file after a meeting.

Disbelief washes over me, quickly followed by a sharp, stinging confusion. What justhappened? Was I just… stress release? A momentary lapse in his legendary control before normal operations resume?

My body still thrums with the aftershocks of his possession, but my mind reels from the sudden emotional disconnect. It feels like whiplash.

Watching him dress, his expression so utterly unreadable now, I realize I’ve crossed a line I can never uncross. But maybe not in the way I thought just minutes ago when tangled beneath him. This isn’t just about saving Hammond & Co. anymore. Not by a long shot.

My feelings are a chaotic mess, the lingering thrum of undeniable physical satisfaction warring with a rising tide of confusion, maybe even a prickle of humiliation. The terrifying surge of… something more… that I felt building now feels dangerously like naivety. Like falling for the oldest trick in the book, played by the most ruthless, emotionally unavailable man I know.

Well, Lucy,I think, pulling the edge of my discarded blouse over myself, feeling a chill that has nothing to do with the air conditioning,you really stepped in it this time.

18

Christopher

Istride through the deserted lobby of the Hammond building, ignoring the startled look from the night guard.

What the fuck did I just do? I left her there. On that worn leather sofa in her disaster zone office. Naked. Flushed. Probably staring after me like I’d just performed open heart surgery and then walked away mid stitch. Which, metaphorically speaking, maybe I did.

Rule number one: Don’t get involved.Especially not with the target. Especially not when that target is wrapped up in a deal already complicated by family bullshit and internal sabotage. I don’t do messy. I don’t do personal. I acquire. I optimize. I win. I don’t do…that.

It was pure, unadulterated loss of control. Fucking her against her desk, on the sofa… commanding her, tasting her, losing myself inside her heat. It was primal. Necessary in the moment.

And a catastrophic strategic error.

Just like Father predicted.

His voice echoes in my skull, dripping with smug certainty.

‘You’ll fuck her eventually, Christopher. It’s weakness. Sentiment. You think you can save her, save the company? You’ll end up fucking her and fucking the deal.’

And like a goddamn fool, I walked right into it. Proved him right.

I descend the front steps to the building in silence, passing my security detail. Victor has the car waiting, engine humming silently. He opens the door without a word, his expression impassive as always. He knows better than to comment, no matter how late or potentially disheveled his employer appears.

The drive back to the penthouse is a blur. My body still thrums with the aftermath, the scent of her seemingly clinging to my skin despite the sterile luxury of the car. But my mind? My mind is already building fortifications.

Walls.

Higher. Thicker.

I have to seal the breach.

Contain the damage.

Morningsunlight streams into the penthouse, mocking my lack of sleep. My phone screen shows three missed calls from L. Hammond.

I ignore them. Delete the notifications.

I need distance. Need to re-establish the lines she somehow managed to blur. This is strictly business. Last night was… an anomaly. A stress-induced deviation from protocol. It won’t happen again. Can’t happen again.

I arrive at the office and Tatiana briefs me on themorning agenda. Full schedule. Back-to-back meetings. Culminating in the Blackwell Innovations board meeting this afternoon. The one where I formally present Project Nightingale and request approval to proceed with the Hammond investment. The one my father will almost certainly try to derail.

Just as Tatiana finishes, my private line buzzes. Speak of the devil.

“He’s on his way up, sir,” Tatiana informs me, her voice professionally devoid of inflection, though she knows exactly what this means. “Unannounced.”