THE BILLIONAIRE'S OBSESSION LOVE ME, BETRAY ME

The first thing Isabella Hayes wanted to do was slap Damian Blackwood. The second was make him regret buying her company. By the time the elevator opened onto the forty-second floor of Blackwood Tower, she had settled on the second option. Slapping a billionaire in front of his board would give the press a photograph. Making him explain why his acquisition numbers did not add up would give her something far more valuable. Evidence. She stepped out, crossed the polished lobby, and placed a thick document folder on the receptionist’s desk. “I’m here to see Damian Blackwood.” The receptionist glanced at her screen. “Do you have an appointment?” “No.” “Mr. Blackwood’s schedule is full until—” “Tell him Isabella Hayes is here to discuss the seven hundred and twenty million dollars he intends to make disappear.” The receptionist’s fingers stopped above the keyboard. Isabella smiled without warmth. “You can also tell him I brought the paperwork.” For three seconds, neither woman moved. Then the receptionist picked up the telephone. Isabella watched her reflection in the dark glass behind the desk. Her black trousers were sharply pressed, her cream blouse buttoned to the throat, and her hair secured in a neat twist. She had dressed for a boardroom battle, not a funeral. Yet grief had followed her into every room since her father died, and today it sat beneath her ribs like a blade she could not remove. Hayes Meridian Group had been built over thirty years. Her father had expanded it from a modest financial services firm into a network of investment, logistics, and property businesses. Now the company was drowning in debt, its creditors were losing patience, and Damian Blackwood had offered to acquire its distressed assets. The offer had been presented as a rescue. Isabella had spent the night discovering how much it resembled a carefully arranged execution. The receptionist replaced the telephone. “Mr. Blackwood will see you now.” “Of course he will.” The boardroom doors opened before Isabella reached them. A man in a charcoal suit stepped out, speaking into a phone. He glanced at her, recognized her, and immediately ended the call. “Miss Hayes. Daniel Mercer. I’m Blackwood Global’s external counsel.” “Then you’ll be interested in the figures I brought.” His gaze dropped to the folder. “Mr. Blackwood is reviewing the final terms.” “Excellent. He can review them while I explain why they’re wrong.” Mercer looked as though he wanted to ask whether she understood the position she was in. He thought better of it. “Go in,” he said. “And be precise about what you allege.” “I always am.” She walked past him. Damian Blackwood stood at the far end of the boardroom, framed by windows that overlooked Manhattan. The city glittered beneath the pale morning sky, all glass towers and restless traffic. Around the table sat seven executives, two attorneys, and three people whose names Isabella recognized from the acquisition documents. Damian was the only person in the room who did not look at the folder she carried. He looked at her. He was taller than she remembered from the photographs in business magazines, broad-shouldered in a black suit that seemed tailored to emphasize the fact that he never needed to raise his voice to be obeyed. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead. His expression was controlled, almost indifferent. His eyes were not. They moved over her face with a concentration that made her suddenly conscious of the distance between them, the quiet room, and the fact that she had spent the previous night imagining several different ways of confronting him. None had prepared her for the unsettling force of his attention. “Miss Hayes,” he said. “You’re early.” “You’re buying my company. I thought I should arrive before you bury it.” One of the executives shifted in his chair. Damian’s expression barely changed. “Sit down.” “I prefer to stand.” “Then stand. But if you’re going to accuse me of fraud, I suggest you begin with the evidence.” There it was. No charm, no polite pretense, no attempt to soften the insult. Damian Blackwood wanted to know whether she had come to make noise or make trouble. She placed the folder on the table and opened it. “Your acquisition proposal values Hayes Meridian’s operating assets at a discount that might be defensible if the underlying figures were accurate. They aren’t. The valuation excludes two contracted logistics revenues, classifies a secured property interest as distressed, and applies a second risk adjustment to liabilities already reflected in the purchase price.” She slid three pages toward him. “The combined effect is a reduction in value of approximately seven hundred and twenty million dollars.” The room fell silent. Damian finally looked at the documents. One of his attorneys reached for a page, but Damian lifted a hand to stop him. He read the first sheet, turned to the second, and examined the third. “How did you obtain these schedules?” he asked. “They were included in the preliminary data room.” “They were not included in the version sent to my board.” “Then someone has been giving your board a different version of my company.” His gaze returned to her face. “That is a serious allegation.” “So is buying assets at a discount created by information you failed to disclose.” “I didn’t fail to disclose anything.” “Then you should have no trouble explaining why the same liabilities appear twice.” A faint tension formed along his jaw. Isabella felt a surge of satisfaction. She had expected him to dismiss her, perhaps offer a settlement designed to send her home quietly. Instead, he was reading every page. That made him more dangerous, not less. A man who understood the numbers could not be defeated by a speech. He had to be cornered by facts. Damian looked at his chief financial officer. “Did you see these schedules?” “No,” the man replied. “The valuation team worked from the approved summary.” “Who approved the summary?” The executive hesitated. Isabella noticed. So did Damian. “Answer the question,” Damian said. “The acquisition committee received the final version from corporate finance. I wasn’t responsible for the supporting schedules.” “That wasn’t the question.” The man swallowed. “I’ll have to check the distribution record.” Damian turned to his legal counsel. “Suspend the board’s consideration of the current valuation until we establish which version was circulated. No one signs anything today.” The words landed harder than Isabella expected. She had come prepared to force a confrontation, not to watch him stop his own acquisition before she had finished making her case. She studied him carefully. Was this genuine caution, or had he simply recognized a problem that could become expensive if she made it public? “Very generous,” she said. “You’re pausing a deal that might collapse under scrutiny anyway.” “I’m pausing a decision based on figures that may be incomplete.” “Your generosity is overwhelming.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You came here to protect your company. I’m giving you an opportunity to show me what you believe is wrong.” “No. I came here because your offer would strip my family of the company my father spent his life building, and I refuse to watch you call it a rescue.” For the first time, something shifted in his expression. Not sympathy. Not quite anger. Interest, perhaps, sharpened by the mention of her father. “Your father,” he said. “Adrian Hayes.” Isabella’s fingers tightened around the edge of the folder. “You knew him?” “I knew of him.” “That isn’t what I asked.” “Your father was involved in business matters that crossed paths with Blackwood Global.” “When?” “Several years ago.” “What business matters?” Damian looked at the executives around the table. “Everyone out.” One of the attorneys began to gather his papers. Another executive opened his mouth as if to object, but Damian did not repeat himself. Within a minute, the room had emptied. Daniel Mercer remained by the door, watching Isabella with an expression she could not read. Damian glanced at him. “Daniel, wait outside.” Mercer hesitated. “I should remain available.” “You will be.” The door closed behind him. Isabella did not sit. “You don’t get to clear a room and expect me to become cooperative.” “I’m not expecting cooperation. I’m expecting a direct conversation without six people preparing their own versions of it.” “Then answer my question. What did my father do for Blackwood Global?” “I didn’t say he worked for us.” “You said his business crossed paths with yours.” “It did.” “How?” Damian leaned one hand against the table. “I don’t have enough information in front of me to give you a reliable answer.” “Convenient.” “Would you prefer an invented one?” She hated that the question was fair. He returned to the acquisition documents, separating the pages she had brought from the official schedule. “These discrepancies need to be investigated. If the valuation team used a version that excluded contracted revenue and duplicated liabilities, the board needs to know. I’ll have the underlying records reviewed.” “And Hayes Meridian?” “No final acquisition decision until the discrepancy is resolved.” “Put that in writing.” “I will.” She had expected a fight. Instead, Damian was giving ground, but only where the numbers forced him to. His willingness to investigate the valuation did not answer why her father had crossed paths with Blackwood Global, or why a company built on precise financial control had presented her with a valuation that could not withstand scrutiny. Isabella closed the folder. “One more thing. I want the source schedules, the revision history, and the names of everyone who had access to the final valuation.” “You’ll receive the records relevant to the review through the proper process.” “Not a summary written by your own people.” “Miss Hayes, I understand the distinction.” “Do you? Because your company is attempting to acquire mine, and I’m not going to trust your version of events simply because it arrives on expensive paper.” For the first time, the corner of his mouth moved. It was not quite a smile, but it came close enough to irritate her. “You’ve made your position clear.” “I intend to keep making it clear.” She reached for the folder, but Damian placed one hand on the page beneath it. “There’s something else you should know.” Isabella froze. “About my father?” “Yes.” Every instinct told her to take the answer slowly. Instead, she heard herself ask, “What?” Damian studied her for a moment, and the controlled indifference that had defined him since she entered the room seemed to recede. What remained was harder to read. “Before I answer, I need to establish whether the document you brought is authentic.” She pulled the page from beneath his hand. “You’ve already seen it.” “I’ve seen a copy of an authorization form bearing your father’s signature. I need to examine the original.” The room seemed to contract around her. Isabella had not intended to show him the form. It had been tucked behind the valuation schedules, a page she had found among her father’s archived business papers after his death. The authorization was old, its edges worn, its reference number connected to a subsidiary of Blackwood Global. She had brought it because she suspected the acquisition figures were not the only part of her father’s affairs that had been misrepresented. She had not expected Damian to recognize its significance. “Why?” she asked. “Because if it is genuine, it may relate to a matter that was never properly closed.” “What matter?” “I don’t know yet.” “Stop telling me what you don’t know. Tell me what you do.” Damian held her gaze. “Your father’s name appeared in a restricted file connected to this company. That file is no longer where it should be.” Isabella felt the floor shift beneath her. “Where should it be?” “In the corporate archive.” “And where is it now?” “I don’t know.” “Then why are you telling me this?” “Because the authorization you have may be the only surviving reference to it.” She looked down at the form. Adrian Hayes’s signature ran across the bottom, familiar enough to make her chest ache. She had watched her father sign hundreds of documents. She knew the firm pressure of his pen, the slight upward slant of his final letter. But she also knew that signatures could be copied, and old documents could be used to make new lies look credible. “What was in the file?” Damian’s expression closed again. “I can’t tell you until I know which file we’re discussing.” “You expect me to believe you have no idea what happened to a restricted file bearing my father’s name in your own archive?” “I expect you to understand that a name on a document is not the same as a verified record. I won’t give you an answer I can’t support.” She wanted to hate him for that. It would have been easier if he had lied badly, or threatened her, or treated her like another distressed shareholder who could be bought off. Instead, he was careful in a way that suggested he understood exactly how much the truth could cost. “Then verify it,” she said. “And send the results to Maya Bennett, my attorney. You do not contact my family, and you do not approach me privately about this again.” “Agreed.” She gathered the folder and turned toward the door. The first gunshot shattered the glass wall before she reached it. For a fraction of a second, the sound made no sense. Then the window burst inward, a spray of glass crossing the room, and one of the men outside the boardroom screamed. Damian moved before Isabella could react. He caught her around the waist and dragged her behind the reinforced conference table as a second shot struck the wall where she had been standing. Her shoulder slammed against the floor. The folder skidded away, papers scattering beneath the table. “Stay down,” he ordered. “Get off me.” “Gladly, when the shooter stops firing.” Another shot cracked through the room. Damian covered her with his body, one arm braced against the floor, the other shielding the back of her head. She could feel the tension in him, the controlled strength of a man forcing himself to remain still while the world erupted around them. For one disorienting instant, she noticed how close his face was to hers. Then someone cried out. Daniel Mercer lay near the doorway, one hand pressed against his side. Blood spread between his fingers and darkened his shirt. “Mercer!” Isabella shouted. Damian looked toward the door. “Security! Lock down this floor. No one enters or leaves without clearance. Call emergency services and get the trauma team ready.” The gunfire stopped. The silence that followed was worse. Damian rose just enough to look over the table. A section of the glass wall had collapsed into glittering fragments. One executive was crouched behind a cabinet, clutching his arm. Another had disappeared beneath the far end of the table. Isabella pushed away from Damian and crawled toward Mercer. “Don’t move,” Damian snapped. “He’s bleeding.” “And you’ll be no use to him if you get shot.” She ignored him and reached Mercer’s side. His face had gone gray, and sweat gathered along his hairline. He tried to speak, but the first attempt came out as a broken breath. “Help is coming,” she told him. “Stay with me.” Mercer caught her wrist with surprising force. “Listen.” “Don’t talk.” “Your father.” He swallowed painfully. “Adrian wasn’t supposed to die.” Isabella went still. “What did you say?” Mercer’s grip tightened. “He was murdered.” The words seemed to drain the air from the room. She had spent years telling herself that her father’s death was a tragedy, a sudden loss surrounded by unanswered questions and documents that never quite explained what had happened. She had wondered whether he had made an enemy, whether a business dispute had turned dangerous, whether someone had failed him when he needed help. She had never allowed herself to imagine that someone had deliberately arranged his death. “Who?” she whispered. Mercer’s eyes moved toward Damian. “Blackwood knows who killed him.” Damian had come closer. At the words, he stopped. For the first time since Isabella had met him, his composure fractured. It was brief, a flicker of recognition or alarm, but she saw it. His gaze dropped to Mercer’s hand, then returned to his face. “Daniel,” Damian said, his voice low. “Save your strength.” Mercer shook his head weakly. “The archive. Find the original.” He fumbled at his jacket and pressed something cold into Isabella’s palm. A small silver key. “Don’t let them take it,” he whispered. “Who?” But Mercer’s eyes had already begun to lose focus. “Find the archive,” he repeated. “Before they erase it.” His hand fell away. Isabella closed her fingers around the key. It was small enough to hide in her fist, heavy enough to feel like a decision she had not agreed to make. Damian crouched beside them. “Give it to me.” She looked up sharply. “What?” “The key.” “No.” “Isabella, Mercer has been shot. Whoever did this may still be inside the building. I need to know what he gave you.” “You need to know, or you need to control it?” His expression hardened. “This is not the time to play games.” “Then stop asking me to hand over evidence the moment someone tells me your company is connected to my father’s death.” “I am trying to keep you alive.” “And I am trying to find out why my father died. Those are not the same thing.” For a moment, neither moved. The air between them was charged with anger, fear, and something neither of them had time to name. Then Damian stood and turned toward the doorway. “Julian! Where is the medical team?” “On the way, sir.” “Get Mercer stabilized. I want the building sealed, every exit covered, and the surveillance systems preserved exactly as they are. No one overwrites a log, resets a camera, or removes a device without authorization.” Julian Reed appeared at the doorway with two security officers. His gaze moved from the shattered glass to Mercer’s bloodied shirt, then to Isabella’s clenched fist. “Was anything taken?” he asked. Isabella did not answer. Damian did. “A key was given to Miss Hayes. She is keeping it.” Julian’s eyes sharpened, but he did not challenge the decision. “Understood. I’ll secure the scene and preserve the access records.” “Do it now.” The security team moved with controlled urgency. One officer knelt beside Mercer and applied pressure to the wound while another spoke to the emergency dispatcher. Damian gave instructions in clipped phrases, demanding the trauma team, the lockdown log, and an immediate preservation hold on the building’s surveillance data. Isabella watched him work. He was not pretending the shooting was an accident. He was not minimizing the security failures. But neither had he explained why Mercer believed Blackwood knew who killed Adrian. When the paramedics arrived, they took Mercer away on a stretcher. His face was pale beneath the oxygen mask, and the silver key had left a red mark in Isabella’s palm where she had gripped it too tightly. Damian stepped into her path as she moved toward the corridor. “You’re not leaving alone.” “Move.” “You have just witnessed an attempted murder. Your brother has already been threatened, and the man who was shot gave you an object someone may be willing to kill for. I’m not going to pretend the danger ends when you walk out of this building.” “You don’t get to decide where I go.” “No. But I can tell you what I know about this building, and right now, the safest place for you is somewhere we can secure.” “Your building was just used to shoot a man in front of me.” His jaw tightened. “Which is why I want the security breach understood before anyone assumes it can’t happen again.” She held his gaze. “If you want me to consider anything you say, you tell me the truth about the archive. You give Maya the records, and you stop treating my questions like an inconvenience.” “I will give her what I can verify.” “And the key stays with me.” Damian looked at her closed hand. “For now.” “It stays with me until I decide otherwise.” She walked past him before he could answer. In the corridor, the emergency lights had begun flashing. Security officers moved between the elevators and the stairwell, checking badges and directing employees into secured rooms. Isabella’s phone was vibrating repeatedly inside her bag, but she did not stop to look at it. She needed air, distance, and a moment in which Damian Blackwood was not standing close enough to make her question the instinct to distrust him. She reached the private elevator lobby before Julian caught up. “Miss Hayes, I can arrange a car and an escort if you want them.” “I want the access logs preserved. All of them, including the entries for the service corridors and the garage. I want the original camera files, not edited clips, and I want a record of everyone who handles them.” Julian studied her for a moment. “I’ll make sure the preservation request is logged.” “And I want a copy sent to my attorney.” “I can’t promise immediate access to every internal security record.” “Then record what you refuse to provide and why.” He nodded once. “That’s reasonable.” It was the first useful answer she had received from anyone connected to Blackwood Global that morning. Isabella took his contact information and stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, she finally looked at her hand. The key lay in her palm, its silver surface marked by a tiny engraved number she had not noticed before. October 12. Her father had told the family he was leaving New York on that date. The photograph had placed him outside Blackwood Tower. Now a wounded man had given her a key bearing the same date and told her to find an archive that had apparently vanished from the company’s records. She closed her fingers around it. The elevator began to descend. On the thirty-ninth floor, Damian stood alone in his office while Julian coordinated the lockdown. The shattered boardroom was being secured, Mercer was on his way to the hospital, and the first reports from security were already coming in. Nothing yet established who had fired the shots or who had supplied the credentials that opened restricted doors. The camera records would have to be preserved and compared with the physical evidence before anyone could say how the attackers had moved through the building. But Mercer’s accusation had changed everything. Blackwood knows who killed him. Damian had spent years telling himself that Adrian Hayes’s death belonged to a closed investigation and a history he could not alter. He had never believed the past was harmless. He had simply convinced himself that keeping it contained was different from concealing it. Now Isabella had the key. His phone vibrated with a message from an unknown number. The girl has the key. Do not let her reach the archive. Damian read it once, then again. He did not know who had sent it, whether the sender had been inside the building, or how they knew Mercer had given Isabella the key. He could not establish whether the message referred to the original archive, a later copy, or a file whose contents had been deliberately removed from the record. But the sender knew what Isabella carried. And whoever they were, they were afraid of where it might lead. Damian looked toward the elevator lobby, where Isabella had disappeared minutes earlier. He could order Julian to find her. He could send a security team to follow her, secure the key, and put every possible obstacle between her and the archive. It would be easy. It would also confirm every suspicion she had about him. He put the phone down without issuing the order. For once, he would have to choose between controlling the evidence and earning the right to see it. Downstairs, Isabella stepped onto the pavement and raised her face to the cold morning air. She had come to Blackwood Tower to stop Damian from buying her company at a price that would destroy her family’s legacy. She was leaving with a key, a new accusation about her father’s death, and the knowledge that someone inside the billionaire’s world wanted the archive to remain buried. She still did not know whether Damian was protecting her, protecting himself, or trying to protect a secret that connected them both. But she knew one thing. If the archive held the truth about Adrian Hayes, she would find it before anyone could erase it again.