Page 2 of The Billionaire's Obsession

The warning sends a chill down my spine. I can't afford to lose this job. I move toward the back of the room, where the lighting is dimmer and the expectations lower. Here, guests are already three drinks in, less likely to notice if my smile slips or my hands shake. Less likely to complain about a server who dares to look tired.

The quartet transitions to something slower, more anticipatory. The lights seem to dim, though I know it's just my imagination. I take a deep breath, steadying the tray against my palm. Just a few more hours, then home to my studio apartment with its leaking faucet and patch of sky visible from the single window. The place I tell myself is temporary, a stepping stone to somewhere better, somewhere I've earned.

A hush falls over the crowd near the entrance, then ripples outward like a stone dropped in still water. The moment stretches, elastic with potential, and I find myself holding my breath along with everyone else.

CHAPTER

TWO

Lucy

He enterslike silence given form—a presence that doesn't announce itself but simply is, commanding attention without demanding it. Damon Blackwell moves through the grand doorway of the Caledon Gala, and the air around him seems to crystallize, as if the molecules themselves are standing at attention. My hand freezes mid-pour, champagne hovering dangerously close to overflowing, as I take in the man whose name has been whispered all night like an invocation.

Damon Blackwell doesn't just wear his midnight-blue suit—he inhabits it. The fabric embraces his broad shoulders and lean waist with the devotion of a lover, custom-tailored to eliminate any barrier between the man and his presentation to the world. His crisp white shirt provides stark contrast, like fresh snow against a winter night sky. But it's his face that arrests my attention, stops my breath in my lungs.

He's not conventionally handsome—he's something else entirely. His features are too sharp, too precisely arranged to be merely attractive. High cheekbones that could cut glass. Ajaw that speaks of decisions never reconsidered. Lips that look unused to smiling. And his eyes—God, his eyes. Even from across the room, I can see they're the color of storm clouds, of steel left in rain. They move methodically across the gathering, assessing, cataloging.

My guest startles me with an impatient cough, and I finish pouring his champagne with a mumbled apology. When I look up again, Damon has advanced further into the room. He doesn't glad-hand or backslap. He doesn't need to. People orbit toward him instead, celestial bodies drawn to a dark star.

"That's him?" a server whispers beside me, her tray clutched like a shield.

"That's him," I confirm, though I've never seen him in person before tonight. There's no mistaking Damon Blackwell for anyone else. He radiates authority like heat.

I force myself to continue working, moving through the crowd with my diminishing supply of champagne. But my awareness has fundamentally shifted. Before, the room was a general blur of wealth and privilege. Now, it's divided into two distinct categories: Damon Blackwell and everyone else.

I serve three more guests, nodding at their mumbled thanks or silent dismissals. My path takes me slightly closer to where Damon stands, surrounded by a semi-circle of people whose body language screams supplication. The mayor is among them, his usual bombastic confidence subdued to something almost deferential.

Damon responds to whatever they're saying with minimal movement—a slight nod, a brief word. He doesn't perform the social dance of fake laughter or exaggerated interest. And yet they lean closer, hungry for any scrap of his attention. It's fascinating and slightly disturbing, like watching a nature documentary on pack behavior.

I'm so absorbed in my observation that I don't immediately realize when his attention shifts. I'm reaching to collect an empty glass when something—some subtle change in the air current, some primitive warning system in my spine—makes me look up.

Damon Blackwell is staring directly at me.

The glass nearly slips from my fingers. His gaze doesn't casually pass over me like everyone else's tonight. It fixes, narrows, focuses. In an instant, I feel stripped of my anonymous server's uniform, exposed in ways that have nothing to do with clothing.

I quickly lower my eyes, a flush creeping up my neck. It's a mistake. When I dare to look again, he's still watching me, and now there's something else in his expression—a curiosity, an intensity that makes my stomach knot.

A woman in a red dress touches his arm, trying to reclaim his attention. He doesn't even glance at her. His eyes remain locked onme, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth lift infinitesimally. Not a smile. An acknowledgment.

I turn away, nearly colliding with another server. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. This is ridiculous. He's just a man—wealthy and powerful, yes, but still just a man. I've been invisible to the upper crust all night. Why would he of all people notice me?

"You okay?" Manuel asks as I reach the service area. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," I lie, exchanging my empty tray for one loaded with canapés. "Just tired."

But as I reenter the main floor, my body vibrates with awareness. I don't need to look to know where Damon stands. I feel his presence like a magnetic field, disrupting my internal compass.

I serve guests mechanically, my smile fixed, my responses automatic. A woman compliments my hair, surprising me with her kindness, but I barely manage a coherent thank you. All my senses are tuned to the man who is now moving through the crowd with measured steps.

Moving toward me.

I pivot away, taking the long route around a cluster of socialites discussing vacation homes. My hands aren't trembling, but only because I'm gripping the tray with unnecessary force. This is absurd. He's probably not even approaching me specifically. The room is only so big. Coincidence of direction. Nothing more.

"Excuse me," a silver-haired man stops me, swaying slightly. His breath reeks of expensive scotch. "Do you know if they're serving that little lobster thing from last year? My wife loved those."

I don't, but I promise to check, grateful for the momentary distraction. When he releases me, I risk a glance across the room.

Damon has stopped to speak with an older gentleman. But even as he nods at whatever is being said, his eyes find mine again, as if there's a direct line between us that no one else can see. This time, there's no mistaking the intent in his gaze. It's proprietary. Assessing. Like I'm a rare commodity he's considering acquiring.

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