Hard to Handle

The Billionaire's Frustration

Lucian Blackwood stormed out of the conference room, leaving a trail of shell-shocked executives in his wake. His assistant Jeremy scrambled to keep up, tablet in hand.

"That," Lucian growled, stabbing the elevator button with more force than necessary, "was an unmitigated disaster."

Jeremy wisely remained silent as they stepped into the private elevator. The mirrored walls reflected Lucian's thunderous expression—the sharp angle of his jaw clenched tight, the vein pulsing at his temple, the stormy gray of his eyes dark with frustration.

"Pull the Miami team off the project," Lucian ordered as the elevator ascended. "And get me Foster on the phone—maybe his firm can salvage this catastrophe."

Jeremy hesitated. "Sir, Foster & Partners have already declined—"

"I don't pay you to remind me of failures, Jeremy." The elevator doors slid open onto the penthouse foyer. "I want options on my desk by morning."

The penthouse was immaculate as always, the faint scent of lemon polish lingering in the air. Lucian shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair that probably cost more than his cleaner's annual salary.

He poured himself two fingers of Macallan 25, the amber liquid catching the afternoon light as he stalked to his study. The Miami plans were still spread across his desk, a glaring reminder of today's disaster.

Lucian took a long swallow of whiskey, letting the burn distract him momentarily from his frustration. He'd built Blackwood Global from nothing, transforming it into one of the most prestigious design firms in the world. His hotels were landmarks, his residential projects the stuff of legend.

So why couldn't his team grasp what he wanted for this damn Miami property?

He reached for the blueprints, then froze.

Something was different.

The plans were slightly askew, the pencil he kept precisely parallel to the desk edge now at a jaunty angle. And there, in the corner of the lobby rendering, a subtle but unmistakable addition.

Someone had touched his work.

Lucian's grip tightened on his glass. He was about to call security when his eye caught the changes more closely. The adjustments were...inspired. The new curved reception desk created a more intuitive flow, the added greenery brought life to the sterile space, and the lighting plan now created pools of warmth rather than harsh illumination.

It was exactly what he'd been trying to articulate to his team for weeks.

A quick check of the security feed showed only one person had been in his study today—the cleaner. That quiet, mousy woman who always seemed to fade into the background.

Lucian zoomed in on the footage, watching as she paused by his desk, her fingers hovering over the blueprints like a musician over piano keys. The way her eyes darted critically across the design—that wasn't idle curiosity. That was the appearance of a trained professional.

He captured a still image of her face. "Jeremy," he barked into his phone. "I need everything you can find on our cleaning service's employee, Amara Bennett."