Page 5 of The Billionaire's Obsession

She grimaces sympathetically. "The rich ones always are."

But it's not the wealth that makes Damon Blackwell difficult. It's the way he looks at me—like he can see past my carefully constructed façade to the desperate, drowning girl beneath. Like he recognizes something in me that I've tried to hide even from myself.

I collect a tray of water glasses and a pitcher of ice water, the weight providing an anchor for my scattered thoughts. I can do this. Serve the table, avoid direct eye contact with Damon, and get through the next few hours with my dignity intact. Simple.

The quartet has shifted to something with a faster tempo, the notes chasing each other with increasing urgency. The crowd seems louder now, the combined effect of alcohol and time loosening inhibitions. I navigate through swaying bodies, holding my tray high.

As I approach table seven again, I notice the dynamics have shifted. Damon is speaking now, his posture still relaxed but his hands moving occasionally to emphasize a point. The other men are leaning forward, faces rapt with attention. Whatever he's saying has them captivated.

I slide along the perimeter, intending to serve water without interrupting. The silver-haired man notices me first, shifting to make space. I place a glass before him, then move to serve the others.

Damon pauses mid-sentence when I reach him, his eyes following my movements as I set down his water. The glass catches the light, sending fractured rainbows across the white tablecloth. For a surreal moment, I'm transfixed by the simple beauty of it, by the incongruity of something so ordinary in this palace of excess.

"Continue," one of the men prompts Damon.

Damon ignores him, his focus entirely on me. "You're a student," he says, not a question but a statement of fact.

I freeze, pitcher poised over his glass. "Yes," I admit, then add unnecessarily, "Part-time."

"What are you studying?"

The other men at the table exchange glances, clearly confused by their host's interest in a server's education. I'm equally confused, but something compels me to answer honestly.

"Business administration. When I can afford the classes."

Something flickers in his eyes—approval, perhaps, or satisfaction at having his assumptions confirmed. "Practical," he comments. "Though not where your passion lies, I suspect."

The observation is too accurate, too intimate for this setting. Heat creeps up my neck. "I should refill the other tables," I say, desperate to escape his penetrating gaze.

I step back, already turning, when disaster strikes. A drunken guest stumbles against my back as he passes, propelling me forward. My feet tangle. The water pitcher tilts precariously in my grip. I see everything with crystal clarity even as time seems to slow—the pitcher falling, water arcing through air, my body pitching toward the pristine white tablecloth and the priceless suits surrounding it.

I'm going to crash. I'm going to spill. I'm going to lose this job and the next semester's tuition and everything I've been working toward.

Then, impossibly, a strong hand clamps around my wrist, arresting my fall. Another grips my waist, stabilizing me. The pitcher somehow stays in my grasp, though water sloshes over the rim and splashes across the table.

Damon Blackwell has caught me. His hands are firm, proprietary, confident in their grip on my body. Heat radiates from the points of contact, burning through the thin material of my uniform. I'm suspended in his hold for what feels like an eternity, my body angled awkwardly, my breath caught in my lungs.

"Careful," he murmurs, his voice pitched for my ears alone.

His grip shifts, guiding me upright with deliberate precision. But he doesn't immediately release me. His fingers remain circled around my wrist, his other hand steady at my waist. The touch feels possessive. Intentional. Like he's been waiting for an excuse to put his hands on me.

Around us, chaos erupts in minor key. The younger executive curses as water soaks his sleeve. The silver-haired man pushes back his chair to avoid the spreading puddle. Someone calls for additional napkins. But all of it registers as background noise, secondary to the electric current running between Damon's body and mine.

I should apologize. I should pull away. I should do anything except stand here, captured by both his hands and his gaze, my heart hammering so loudly I'm certain he can hear it.

"I'm sorry," I finally manage, the words emerging breathless and inadequate.

His eyes hold mine, unflinching. "Don't be."

More commotion as a waiter rushes over with napkins. Someone else retrieves the water pitcher from my still-frozen grip. Damon's hands fall away from my body, but the imprint of his touch remains, burning like a brand beneath my clothes.

"It wasn't her fault," Damon says to the hovering manager who's appeared at the edge of the scene, his face pale with barely concealed panic. "A guest bumped into her."

The statement is delivered with such authority that the manager simply nods and redirects his anxiety toward locating the offending guest. I stand awkwardly in the aftermath, uncertain of my role now that the crisis has passed.

My gaze falls to the table, where water droplets have merged with spilled wine from one of the executive's glasses. The red liquid spreads in thin rivulets across the white tablecloth, creating abstract patterns that look oddly like veins. Like lifeblood.

When I look up, Damon is watching me with an intensity that steals what little breath I've managed to recover. There's something darkly satisfied in his expression, as if my stumble was not an inconvenience but an opportunity he'd been waiting for.

---