Page 77 of Forbidden Billionaire
His tone is light, but the implication is not.
“I don’t share.” My voice is cool. Final.
He chuckles. “Shame. She’s got range.”
My second drink arrives, and I toss back half of it before I remind myself not to show my hand to a vulture.
Marchand rises and straightens his jacket. “Don’t fall in love, Blackwell. That’s how men like us get destroyed.”
Men like us.
Like I fucking don’t know that?
I watched my dad’s world crumble because of a woman.
Then Marchand is gone, all polish and menace, slipping through the paneled door like a ghost who never needed permission to haunt me.
Walt arrives.
Fucking finally.
He scans the bar, nods once, then tips his chin toward the back hallway. Private rooms. Where real conversations happen.
I leave my glass on the bar, unfinished and fall in step with my uncle. The walk is quiet, but each step bristles. His energy’s tight, his gait clipped.
Inside, the room is dim and spare. Just a long table, tall-backed leather chairs, and thick walls built to hold secrets.
He doesn’t sit. Just plants his hands on the back of the chair across from mine. “We’re not going to waste time pretending this is about Lockhart.”
“Shame,” I say, loosening my collar and finally taking the seat. “I had a whole speech prepared.”
Walt’s jaw tightens. “We need to talk about your assistant.”
My back goes stiff, and I already know this won’t end well.
“She was fired, Xavier. Do you remember that? Or are you too busy playing house with her to give a shit?”
“An action made in haste. Regrettable.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” He snorts. “And now you’ve brought her back—into our offices, into our business. What the fresh hell are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking she’s the best hire I’ve made in years.”
“You’re thinking with your dick.”
I narrow my eyes. “Watch your fucking tone, Uncle.” My voice cracks like a whip, and he seems to find some common sense.
Slowly he sits, but he’s still coiled. Every inch of him is on high alert, old scars and corporate paranoia.
“You’re just like your father.”
And there it is.
“Don’t,” I warn.
But he presses on. “You think I enjoy bringing Vivienne up? I don’t. But this isn’t a joke. This is how it starts. The obsession. The excuses. The blind spots. That woman—your mother—nearly destroyed this family.”
I breathe through my nose, count backward from ten, but the rage is already pushing at the edges.
