Page 1 of The Billionaire's Obsession

CHAPTER

ONE

Lucy

My fingers trembleslightly as I balance the tray of champagne flutes, each crystal edge catching light like tiny warning signals. The weight isn't physical—it's the pressure of knowing one misstep in this marble playground of the elite could cost me everything. I straighten my back, plaster on a smile that doesn't reach my eyes, and step into the glittering chaos of the Caledon Charity Gala.

The grand foyer stretches before me like an ocean of wealth. Marble floors polished to mirrors reflect chandeliers that hang like frozen fireworks, their light splintering across the room in precise, calculated patterns. I navigate between clusters of guests whose combined net worth could probably fund my entire university education ten times over. Their laughter has a particular timbre—confident, practiced, the sound of people who've never worried about making rent.

"Champagne, sir? Ma'am?" I offer the tray with practiced steadiness, my voice pitched to the perfect blend of deference and invisibility.

A woman in a backless gown that probably cost more than my car reaches for a glass without looking at me. Her diamond bracelet catches the light as her fingers close around the stem. I am furniture to her—functional, necessary, but not worth acknowledging.

I don't blame her. We're playing our designated roles in this carefully choreographed dance of service and privilege. Tonight, I am peripheral vision. A hand that extends trays. A voice that murmurs pleasantries.

The classical quartet in the corner plays something I recognize from my music appreciation class—the one luxury course I allowed myself before switching to business administration. The notes float above the crowd, refined and restrained, unlike the pounding bass that would be shaking the walls at parties in my neighborhood.

"Watch yourself," a man in a tuxedo mutters as I slip past, though he was the one who stepped backward without looking. The champagne in my tray sloshes dangerously, and my heart seizes. One spill on a designer dress would cost me my job, and I desperately need this gig.

Three more payments until I can re-enroll for the spring semester. Three more payments until I can pretend the six-month gap in my education was intentional—a "life experience" sabbatical rather than financial desperation.

I circle back to the service area, where harried staff in identical black-and-whites move with practiced efficiency. Manuel, a veteran server with perpetually tired eyes, gives me a quick nod.

"Rich bastards are extra thirsty tonight," he says, refilling my tray. "Blackwell's supposed to show. They're all hoping to get their hooks in him."

My stomach tightens at the name. Everyone knows Damon Blackwell, even those of us without stock portfolios. Hisface graces business magazines and scandal rags with equal frequency. Self-made billionaire. Corporate shark. Man who supposedly eats competitors for breakfast and vulnerable women for dinner.

"People really came just to see him?" I ask, adjusting my bow tie in the reflection of a serving tray.

Manuel snorts. "Blackwell signs the checks that fund half the charities in this city. Plus, he's single. Do the math."

I take a fresh tray and head back into the fray, my mind lingering on the idea of Damon Blackwell. I've seen his photographs—striking rather than conventionally handsome, with eyes that seem to assess your market value even through glossy magazine pages. The thought that he might soon be here, breathing the same air, makes the room feel suddenly smaller.

A woman with a voice like cut crystal stops me with a flick of her manicured fingers. "Tell me, does the help know if Blackwell has arrived yet?" Her smile is carnivorous, her eyes already scanning the room over my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I wouldn't know," I reply, though the way she asked makes my teeth clench behind my smile.

"Pity." She plucks a champagne flute and dismisses me with the same gesture.

I move on, weaving between bodies that cost more to maintain than my entire existence. Designer perfumes clash in the air—French roses, Italian bergamot, notes of rare oud and amber—creating an invisible class barrier as effective as any velvet rope. My drugstore body spray wilts in comparison, another tiny tell that I don't belong.

Near the east windows, a group of older men with military posture discuss something in low, serious tones. Their conversation halts as I approach with my tray, resuming only after I've moved a respectful distance away. The weight of secrets hangs heavy around them—business deals, perhaps, orpolitical machinations. The kind of conversations that shift stock prices or redraw district lines.

My feet ache in the cheap service shoes I polished frantically this morning. Five hours down, three to go. The envelope of cash at the end of the night will be worth it—enough to cover half a textbook, a fraction of a credit hour. I've done the math so many times I dream in decimals and dollar signs.

Another circuit. Another tray. A man with silver temples and wandering hands "accidentally" brushes his fingers against mine as he takes a glass. I've learned to step back quickly, to move on without reacting. Complaints get you labeled as difficult, and difficult servers don't get called back for the high-paying gigs.

In the ladies' room—a sanctuary I'm only allowed to enter with cleaning supplies—I catch a glimpse of myself in the gold-framed mirror. My dark hair is scraped back into a regulation bun, my face carefully made up to be presentable but forgettable. I look exhausted around the eyes. Twenty-two going on forty.

"You can do this," I whisper to my reflection, then immediately feel foolish. Giving yourself pep talks in borrowed bathrooms—another sign of someone who doesn't belong.

Back in the grand hall, the energy has shifted. There's a subtle current running through the crowd, a ripple of anticipation. Women touch their hair, men straighten their posture. The social equivalent of animals sensing a predator.

"He's coming," I hear a redhead in emerald silk whisper to her companion. "Blackwell just pulled up."

I shouldn't care. His arrival means nothing to me except perhaps more demanding guests, more champagne to pour. And yet I find myself glancing toward the entrance, curious despite myself to see the man whose name commands such immediate attention.

Manuel passes me with an empty tray. "Heads up. When Blackwell arrives, stay out of his way. Guy's known for firing staff if they so much as breathe wrong near him."

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