Page 57 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

One minute, we’re working together, connecting, culminating in…that. The next, he’s Mr. Freeze, talking about financial forensics like we hadn’t just been intimately acquainted with every square inch of my office sofa.

The whiplash is giving me actual vertigo. Seriously. I’m surprised I’m still able to walk.

Did I misread everything? Was the shared vulnerability just a figment of my overworked, overstimulated imagination? Was the whole thing just… a calculated move? Or simple stress release?

God, I feel like such an idiot.

A well pleasured idiot, admittedly, but an idiot nonetheless. My body still hums with the memory of his touch, his control, that ridiculously huge cock filling me.

But my brain? My brain is doing frantic, confused laps around my bruised ego.

I need perspective. I need someone who understands the confusing landscape of billionaire romance slash corporate warfare.

I need Ava.

“So, he went full Ice King after playing Tarzan in your office?” Ava asks, swirling her iced matcha latte. We’re sitting outside her favorite SoHo cafe, enjoying a rare moment of sunshine that feels completely at odds with my internal storm clouds. As usual, her private security detail stands watch outside.

“Pretty much,” I sigh, poking at my croissant. “One minute, intense connection, shared confessions, mind blowing sex. The next? ‘Did you bring the updated analysis on Weiss?’ What the fuck! Like nothing happened. LikeIwas just another agenda item he checked off.”

Ava takes a thoughtful sip. “Definitely reminds me of Gideon in our early days. Guys like that, they’re wired differently than normal people. It’s that wiring that made them billionaires in the first place.”

I nod. “I get that he’s different. But what exactly is going on? What do I do?”

“Okay, possibility one: He’s a sociopath who gets off on emotional manipulation and power plays.”

“Definitely on the table,” I concede.

“Possibility two,” she continues, ignoring my interruption, “he’s terrified.”

I blink. “Terrified? Christopher Blackwell? The man who probably negotiates nuclear treaties before breakfast?”

“Terrified,” Ava repeats firmly. “Think about it, Lucy. You saw behind the mask. He showed you vulnerability. That story about his mom when you found the photo? For a guy like him, that’s huge. Like, DEFCON 1 level emotional exposure. And the same thing with the sex. He can’t allow himself to open up after that. It makes him too vulnerable. What do guys like that do when they feel exposed? They slam the door. Build the walls higher. Retreat to what they know: control, distance, business.”

I chew on my lip, considering this. It… actually makes a weird kind of sense. The sudden coldness wasn’t necessarily aboutme, but abouthim. His fear of whatever that connection represented.

Okay, maybe I’m not a complete idiot. Maybe just partially an idiot for sleeping with my emotionally damaged maybe-enemy.

“So what do I do?” I ask. “Pretend it didn’t happen? Send him a passive aggressive memo about workplace boundaries?”

“Or,” Ava suggests, a familiar glint in her eye, “you could call him on his bullshit. Instead of ignoring it. Instead of pretending it didn’t happen. That’s the only way to get through to guys like him. Ask me how I know. I spent weeks not saying a word. Bottling everything up... it was the worst thing I ever did. Trust me. Call him on his bullshit.”

Before I can process that terrifyingthought, my phone buzzes. A text. From that familiar secure number.

Oh, fantastic. More cryptic breadcrumbs?

I read it:

Hamptons.This weekend. We need to finalize the Morgan strategy without interruptions. Car will pick you up Friday 5pm unless instructed otherwise. -C.

My jaw drops.The Hamptons? Like, polo ponies and ridiculously overpriced lobster rolls Hamptons? With him? An entire weekend? After he basically ghosted me emotionally?

Is this guy bipolar? Or just fluent in Advanced Level Mind Games?

Or Ava is completely right.

“What is it?” Ava asks, leaning closer.

I show her the text. She reads it, then looks back at me, eyebrows raised. “Well. He’s not subtle, is he? ‘Work without interruptions.’ Translation: ‘I want to get you alone somewhere ridiculously expensive where I can control the environment and maybe apologize slash seduce you again.’”