My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy (Big, Fat Bigwigs #2)

1. Lucy

1

Lucy

I smooth down my pencil skirt for the tenth time, my palms annoyingly damp. My reflection in a darkened screen shows a reasonably put-together woman. Honey-blonde hair behaving itself in loose waves? Check. Business-chic ensemble screaming competence I don’t entirely feel? Check. Minimalist jewelry adding just the right touch of ‘I have taste, not just my Daddy’s name?’ Check. Bright, fresh-faced makeup hopefully hiding the fact I barely slept? Debatable, but we’re rolling with it.

I pop a mint. Strategic partnerships require fresh breath.

Probably.

Around me, people crowd around the sleek booths of the tech expo, the whole place humming with a palpable energy that’s part innovation and part naked ambition. My own ambition feels more like sheer, teeth-grinding panic right now.

Then I see it. The Blackwell Innovations booth. It’s less a booth, more a small sovereign nation of brushed steel and glowing blue logos .

And there he is, the emperor of it all, holding court in the center.

Christopher Blackwell.

Oh, good grief. He’s even more… him … in person. The pictures didn’t do him justice. Or maybe they did him too much justice, making him seem like a mere mortal instead of… this.

Tall, annoyingly broad-shouldered in a killer suit, dark hair with just a hint of distinguished silver at the temples. He’s demonstrating some headset thing, gesturing with sharp, precise movements. A crowd hangs on his every word, nodding like a row of bobbleheads.

He turns, scanning the expo floor with an air of casual ownership. His eyes, sharp, analytical, and an absurdly arresting shade of blue, lock onto mine.

It’s like a physical jolt. A weird, stomach-flipping, oh-crap kind of jolt.

My breath hitches.

My brain, usually my staunchest ally in awkward situations, decides to short-circuit.

Nope. No. Absolutely not. He’s the enemy.

The very attractive, annoyingly competent enemy who wants to dismantle everything you care about.

Get a grip, Hammond!

My fingers find the silver bracelet on my wrist, twisting it nervously. Heat rushes to my cheeks.

Damn it, not the cheeks, too! I’m worse than Ava!

He holds my gaze for a beat too long, a flicker of something unreadable in those blue depths. Then a slow, almost imperceptible smirk touches his lips before he turns back to his audience, resuming his spiel like nothing happened.

But something did happen. My body decided the man actively plotting my family’s corporate demise is… hot.

Fantastic. Another complication in this dumpster fire of a situation.

I force myself to watch him. He moves with a deliberate grace, exudes a confidence that’s both infuriating and undeniably compelling. He laughs easily with a potential client, clapping the man on the shoulder, but his eyes remain calculating. He doesn’t just sell tech. He sells power.

Plan B was to maybe approach him through lawyers, send a carefully worded email, try some sort of formal, distanced negotiation. But seeing him now, seeing the way he commands attention, the predatory gleam in his eye… no. That feels way too weak.

Hammond & Co. might be wounded, but we’re not dead yet. And I’m sure as hell not going down without looking the shark right in the eye.

I straighten, trying to channel confidence rather than the anxiety churning inside. I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Take a deep breath.

Just put one foot in front of the other...

And then a strangely familiar voice cuts through the buzz. “Lucy? Is that you?”

I turn. “Amir?!” Relief washes over me. I’m thrilled for any excuse to delay the inevitable.

It’s Amir Khan, my partner-in-crime from high school drama club and survivor of Mrs. Davison’s brutal geometry class. We’ve kept in touch sporadically over the nine years since graduation, mostly through chaotic group chats and the occasional shared meme.

He looks good. Sharp haircut, stylish glasses, wearing a polo shirt with a quirky tech logo I don’t recognize.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, genuinely surprised. “Last I heard you were coding video games in your pajamas.”

He grins, flashing the same mischievous smile that always preceded him putting a tack on someone’s chair. “Moved up in the world, Lulu.” Lulu . Nobody calls me that anymore. “I’m with CyberHound Dynamics now. We’re showcasing our new line of robot companions.” He gestures proudly towards his company’s much smaller, less ostentatious booth nearby. Two sleek, metallic dogs stand alert, their LED eyes glowing softly. They look vaguely menacing, like something out of a sci-fi movie that ends badly.

“Robot dogs?” I raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Don’t mock the future!” he says playfully. “These guys are amazing. Real-time adaptive AI, learning, autonomous decision-making… plus, they can take remote commands for specific tasks. And fetch.” He says the last with a wink.

“Impressive,” I admit, glancing nervously towards the Blackwell fortress again.

“So, what brings you to this den of capitalist vipers?” Amir asks, following my gaze. “Don’t tell me you’re finally embracing the dark side?”

I sigh. “Worse. I’m here to try to reason with Christopher Blackwell. Corporate raider extraordinaire. He’s attempting a hostile takeover of my dad’s company.”

Amir whistles. “Blackwell? Oof. Heard he’s a piece of work. Ruthless.”

“Understatement,” I mutter. “Total asshole. But I have to try. It’s… important.”

“Well, break a leg,” he says, patting my shoulder. “Just try not to get eaten alive. ”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say dryly. “Wish me luck.”

I square my shoulders again, take a deep breath, and head towards the Blackwell booth.

I’ve only taken about ten steps when I hear a distinct whir-clicking behind me.

I glance back.

One of Amir’s robot dogs is trotting purposefully in my wake, its little metal tail wagging.

“Amir!” I hiss, turning around completely. He’s standing by his booth, arms crossed, that familiar shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “Not funny! Call it off!”

He just shrugs innocently, pointing at the dog. “He must like you! Autonomous decision-making, remember?”

Liar. He was always a practical joker. I remember the stink bomb incident in sophomore year all too well. I turn and walk faster, trying to weave through the crowd.

The whir-clicking follows relentlessly.

I duck behind a large display showcasing holographic projectors. Silence.

Okay, I think I lost it.

I peek out… nope, there it is, sniffing the air expectantly.

Then I hear another set of clicks. The second dog trots up to join the first.

Great. Double trouble.

“Seriously, Amir, knock it off!” I mouth furiously across the aisle, trying not to draw attention. He just blows me a kiss.

Okay, fine. Evasive maneuvers.

I dart left, then right, cutting through a knot of people gathered around a drone demonstration.

I glance back.

The dogs are momentarily confused, scanning the crowd.

Yes! Feeling a surge of misplaced triumph, I hurry forward, constantly looking over my shoulder, focused on putting distance between me and my metallic stalkers.

And promptly walk straight into something solid. Something tall. Something wearing a very expensive suit.

“Oof!” I stumble sideways, colliding with a display counter, rattling some brochures and computer equipment. My head snaps up.

Standing directly in front of me and looking down with an expression of mild surprise mixed with impatience, is Christopher Blackwell.

Oh.

My.

God.

My carefully prepared opening speech evaporates. My brain goes completely blank.

All I can think is, I just walked into the shark.

“Mr… Blackwell,” I stammer, cheeks instantly flaming.

Smooth, Lucy. Real smooth.

Before I completely short-circuit or his undoubtedly well-armed security decides I’m actively assaulting him, I duck behind the safety of his display counter.

Yes, I am literally hiding behind furniture. Don’t judge me. There’s just something fundamentally calming about having a solid object separating you from imminent doom, or at least, imminent mortification and intimidating blue eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” I continue. “I wasn’t looking… ”

From behind the counter, he raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. His blue eyes assess me, and that faint smirk I saw earlier returns, stronger this time. “Clearly.” His voice is smooth, deep, with an underlying edge that says don’t waste my time .

Okay, regroup. Salvage this.

“I’m Lucy Hammond,” I manage, trying to inject professionalism into my voice, ignoring the fact I probably look like a startled cat. “From Hammond and Company. I was hoping we could—”

Suddenly I feel something nudge insistently against my calf.

No.

Then, a rhythmic pressure.

Oh god, no.

I glance down discreetly behind the counter.

The first robot dog is there, its head tilted, one metallic leg wrapped around my ankle, performing a series of enthusiastic, mechanical humps.

Not funny, Amir! I am going to KILL you!

I try to subtly shake my leg, praying Blackwell hasn’t noticed. He’s still looking at my face, waiting for me to finish my sentence, that damn smirk playing on his lips.

“—hoping we could discuss,” I continue, my voice slightly strained, trying to ignore the persistent humping. “A potential… strategic arrangement… between our companies.” I try a smile. It probably looks more like a grimace.

I hear snickers behind me. Likely Blackwell believes the onlookers are laughing at my apparent lack of composure and preparedness, not a robot dog humping my leg .

Damn it!

He leans back slightly, crossing his arms. The picture of casual arrogance. “Hammond,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the name. “A strategic arrangement.” His eyes linger on my mouth for a split second. “I find the most satisfying arrangements are usually the ones where I have complete control, Ms. Hammond. Less complicated that way.”

Just keep talking. Ignore the robo-pervert.

“Actually,” I say, trying desperately to focus while simultaneously attempting a covert kick backwards with my heel. The dog just adjusts its grip. “Sometimes, the most rewarding ventures... involve combining complementary strengths. Hammond & Co.’s legacy... and market position... paired with Blackwell Innovations’ technological prowess. We could build something... remarkable.”

More snickers from behind me. The robot dog humps even harder, if that’s possible, and I slam my palms down onto the table to keep from losing my balance.

A puzzled expression flashes across Blackwell’s face, and he glances at my hands in confusion. Then he smirks again, perhaps believing I’m trying to be dramatic.

“Remarkable?” he repeats, his voice a low murmur now, clearly meant only for me despite the surrounding crowd. “How about I simply acquire your legacy, strip it for parts, integrate the tech, and build something remarkable myself. Cleaner. Faster.” His blue eyes pin me in place. Mock me.

Oh god, this dog is going to make me cry.

But I force myself to continue. I lift my chin. “Cleaner and faster isn’t always... better. Sometimes it just leaves... a bigger mess. Partnership preserves value. An acquisition… destroys value.”

This is a disaster .

I’ve just about had as much as I can take when the other robot dog trots confidently into view, wagging its tail. It circles once, then walks straight up to Christopher Blackwell…

And starts humping his leg.

Right there.

In the open.

For god and everyone at the tech expo to see.

My jaw drops. Time seems to slow down. Blackwell looks down at the dog attached to his impeccably tailored trousers with an expression of utter disbelief, which quickly morphs into annoyance. A ripple of fresh snickers runs through the nearby onlookers.

My face achieves a new, previously unknown shade of crimson. “Oh my god,” I gasp, mortified beyond measure. “I am so sorry! It’s… it’s my friend! Amir! It’s his booth, the robot dogs… he thinks he’s being funny!”

I’ve totally lost the conversational thread, and I’m babbling, gesturing wildly between the dogs and Amir’s direction, where I can see him doubled over with laughter.

Frustrated, I give my own leg a more vigorous shake, trying to dislodge my persistent mechanical admirer. I lose my balance this time, bumping the counter. “Get off !”

That’s when Blackwell looks from the dog on his leg to mine, finally noticing the identical robot diligently violating my ankle behind the counter.

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly. “You have one, too?”

Before I can respond, he takes charge. He reaches down, grabs the dog attached to his leg by the scruff of its metallic neck, and yanks it forcefully away. There’s a distinct RRRRIP as a piece of his expensive-looking pant leg tears. He tosses it aside. The robot dog lands on its feet, emits a surprised electronic yip and scurries away, disappearing into the crowd.

Seeing its comrade flee, the dog humping my leg abruptly detaches, gives a final parting nudge, and takes off after its friend, vanishing through the legs of the amused spectators.

A member of his security detail appears at his side. “Everything all right, sir?”

Blackwell raises a dismissive hand. “I’m fine.”

The newcomer melds into the background.

Silence descends on the Blackwell booth, broken only by the vague expo buzz and my own frantic heartbeat. I stare at the rip in Christopher Blackwell’s trousers, then up at his face. His expression is… hard to read. Annoyed, yes, but also… intrigued? Maybe faintly amused under the icy control?

“Mr. Blackwell, I am so incredibly sorry,” I burst out, words tumbling over each other. “About the dogs, the disruption… your pants! My friend is an absolute idiot, I had no idea he’d do that, I’ll pay for the tailoring, of course, whatever it costs…” I trail off, wanting the floor to swallow me whole.

He looks down at his ripped trousers, then back at me. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture that seems almost… human. A slow smile spreads across his face, transforming his severe features. It’s devastating.

“Well, Ms. Hammond,” he says, his voice laced with dry amusement. “You certainly know how to stand out.” He pulls a sleek, thin phone from his pocket. “Your direct number?”

I blink in confusion.

He wants my number?

I give it to him instantly .

He nods. “My assistant, Tatiana, will be in touch to schedule something.” He pauses, leaning over the counter, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. “But be warned,” he murmurs, his voice holding a low, dangerous promise. “You’ll have to be very, very convincing to make me change my mind about taking exactly what I want.”

My fingers tremble slightly as I nod. “Th-thank you,” I stammer. “And again, I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, though his eyes linger on the rip in his pants for a beat. He turns back towards the interior of his booth.

My legs feel like jelly as I walk away. The mortification is a physical weight, literally crushing me. Onlookers subtly glance my way, trying to hide their smiles. I can feel my face burning.

I spot Amir, still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes at his booth.

Fury, hot and burning, momentarily eclipses the humiliation.

I storm towards him.

“Amir Khan, you absolute bastard !” I hiss.

“Oh, come on, Lulu, admit it was funny!” he says, still chuckling. “The look on that corporate stiff’s face!”

“Funny?!” My voice cracks. “That was Christopher Blackwell! The guy I told you about! That meeting was critical for my family’s company, and you sicced humping robots on us! He probably thinks I’m a complete lunatic!”

“Hey, you said he was an asshole,” Amir counters, sobering slightly at the intensity of my glare. “Thought I’d help break the ice. Or, you know, trip him up a little.”

“Break the ice? You tore his pants!” I practically screech, then lower my voice again. “I could have lost any chance I had!”

“So, did you? Lose the chance?” he asks, tilting his head.

I deflate slightly. “No,” I admit grudgingly. “He… he took my number. Said his assistant would schedule a meeting.”

Amir beams. “See? Mission accomplished! You got the meeting!”

“Yeah, probably so he can send me the tailor bill!” I snap, the humiliation flooding back. “God, Amir, I don’t think I’ve ever been so mortified in my entire life.” The image of that dog relentlessly humping not just my leg, but Blackwell’s, the ripping sound, the amused onlookers… it’s seared into my brain. “This isn’t high school anymore! This is my life !”

Amir’s smile finally fades completely. “Okay, okay, maybe I went too far. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was that important.”

“Yeah, well, it is,” I mutter. I look at him, the anger warring with years of friendship. “I’m probably not going to be talking to you for a while.”

His face falls. “I understand…”

Maybe I’m being too hard on him. It’s not like we talked all that much anyway, but still, what he did, it was totally unacceptable. He crossed a line.

I turn away before he can say anything else and walk quickly towards the exit, needing fresh air, needing to escape the scene of my utter humiliation.

I got the meeting, yes. But at what cost to my dignity?

How on earth am I going to face Christopher Blackwell again after that ?