I'm the Billionaires' Secret

POV: Lana Sterling - I never expected to lock eyes with a man who radiated such raw power, and I certainly never imagined he would see right through me. - I step out of the limo in front of the Grand Aurora Hotel, my black stilettos clicking against the polished marble steps. A wave of early-spring Manhattan air nips at my shoulders before I hand my coat to the waiting attendant. Inside, the hum of conversation merges with the soft echo of an orchestra playing somewhere in the grand foyer. Every nerve in my body sparks with anticipation. This gala is the kind of event where old money, politicians, celebrities, and the occasional dark horse converge. It’s also the perfect place for me, a journalist with an insatiable appetite for unearthing secrets, to find the story I need. Tonight, I’m supposed to blend in, quietly gather intelligence, and hopefully secure the kind of exclusive scoop that could catapult my career to the front pages of the biggest news outlets. I pause in the entryway, taking a moment to absorb the opulence. High above me, crystal chandeliers sparkle like galaxies of tiny stars, their reflections dancing across sleek marble floors. The lighting is soft, strategic, enough to create an aura of wealth and exclusivity, but still casting gentle shadows in the corners. Large floral arrangements garnish pedestal tables, exuding the scent of lilies and roses that mingle with the faint aroma of champagne. Guests swirl about in designer gowns, crisp tuxedos, and tailored suits, every one of them reeking of wealth, confidence, and well-practiced smiles. I’ve been to high-society events before, but there’s something about this one that feels more charged, more electric. Maybe it’s the promise of rubbing shoulders with Manhattan’s most powerful. Maybe I’m just restless. My editor’s instructions rattle in my mind: Find Damien Blackwood. Get the scoop on his next move. We’ve heard rumors, dig them up. Damien Blackwood. The name alone is enough to make me bite my lip. He’s legendary in corporate circles, CEO of Blackwood Enterprises, a self-made billionaire who dominates the real estate, tech, and entertainment industries with a ruthless edge. Rumors swirl around him, whispers of clandestine business deals, alleged ties to shady underworld figures, and philanthropic gestures so grand they must mask something deeper. But I’m not here just to confirm rumors. I’m here because I have a sixth sense about these kinds of men, men with wealth, power, and dark secrets. They never exist in a vacuum. There’s always something lurking beneath. And if I can peel back the layers of the infamous Damien Blackwood, my career will skyrocket. Easier said than done. Clutching my champagne flute, I ease into the main ballroom, a vast space with towering pillars and vaulted ceilings painted with Renaissance-era artistry. Black-and-white checkered floors gleam under the myriad golden lights, and server after server glides around with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, caviar tarts, mini lobster rolls, and those tiny desserts that cost more than my grocery bill. As I move through the crowd, my mind drifts toward my reason for being here, my reason beyond just a big story. There’s a personal edge to my pursuit. I have my own ghosts to face, and if Damien Blackwood’s rumored connections can shed light on them, I’ll be damned if I pass up the chance. A pang of anxiety coils in my chest, but I quell it by taking a sip of champagne. I need to stay calm, act like I belong among these wealthy, entitled elites. Eyes drifting, I catch the swirl of a midnight-blue gown, the sparkle of diamond earrings, the subtle flirtation in stolen glances across the room. It’s like a choreographed dance of the powerful. They spin around one another, exchanging polite laughs and well-rehearsed pleasantries, each carrying an undercurrent of hidden intentions. Through the swirl of tuxes and ball gowns, I spot a tall figure near the far edge of the room. He’s facing away from me, but even from behind, I sense an aura of command. His broad shoulders fill out a black suit so exquisitely tailored, it clings to every contour of his torso. His hair is dark, neatly styled, though just long enough that a lock falls forward whenever he dips his head. Something about his stance sets my pulse racing. He shifts slightly, and I glimpse the strong, angular cut of his jaw under the faint light. Then he turns, and I’m seized by an inexplicable jolt of awareness. His eyes are piercing, a cool shade of gray or maybe light hazel, trained on the person he’s conversing with. But the moment he glances in my direction, it’s like a magnetic pull. Damien Blackwood. My breath hitches. A single look at him and I suddenly understand the obsession people have. I’ve seen pictures, read stories, but they don’t capture the raw intensity he radiates in person. He exudes absolute confidence, maybe even arrogance. The line of his mouth is firm, almost unreadable, but there’s a faint curve at the corner, like he holds a private joke he’s not willing to share with anyone. From a distance, I try to take in every detail. He’s built like a god, lean, with wide shoulders, thick legs, and the kind of presence that dwarfs everyone around him. The tailored suit pants are snug across his thighs, and as he moves, I, God, I can’t believe I’m noticing this, I can see the outline of his p***s shift, thick and unmistakable, as though he’s wearing nothing underneath. I swallow hard. This is insane, letting my gaze linger on that part of him. But an overpowering attraction grips me, making me wonder if I’m even still breathing. This is unprofessional as hell. He’s my story; he’s the subject of countless rumors. I’m here to hunt down secrets, not to fantasize over his body. C’mon, Lana, get it together. Yet a wicked little voice at the back of my mind wonders what he might feel like pressed up against me, his mouth on my neck, those powerful arms pinning me in place. A flush of heat blooms across my chest, and I curse inwardly, adjusting my posture to maintain composure. I keep my distance, listening to snatches of conversation around me: politicians bragging about upcoming campaigns, hedge-fund managers dropping hints about the next stock that’s about to pop, celebrities gossiping about co-stars. None of it matters. I only have eyes for one person. Damien shifts again, turning so I have a better angle on him. Even across the crowd, I swear I feel the brush of his gaze. My stomach twists, both in excitement and a flicker of apprehension. If the man is half as dangerous as the rumors say, do I really want to be the journalist poking around in his affairs? But it’s too late for second guesses. A good journalist doesn’t retreat at the first sign of intimidation. If anything, that intimidation means there’s a bigger story beneath the surface. I move through the throng, weaving past a group of socialites with painted-on smiles. My heart accelerates as I close the distance between me and Damien. I’m not even sure what I’m going to say. Something about a potential interview for a prestigious magazine? Maybe I’ll pretend to be a benefactor who’s curious about his philanthropic projects. Just as I near him, a woman in a sleek silver dress steps in front of me, her perfume thick and flowery. She’s a local PR maven I recognize. She corners me with small talk about the gala, the music, the “magical synergy of Manhattan’s philanthropic circles.” I grit my teeth, offering half-smiles and murmured responses, trying to inch around her without appearing overtly rude. I catch a glimpse of Damien’s back as he drifts further away. Damn it. Eventually, I manage to free myself from the PR maven’s prattle, but Damien has vanished beyond a swirl of tuxedos. I mutter an unladylike curse under my breath and down the rest of my champagne, leaving the empty flute with a passing server. Determined not to lose him, I circle the room. My pulse thrums in my ears. Where could he have gone? Blackwood is supposed to be the guest of honor tonight, the man with the deepest pockets and enough influence to turn this entire event into a personal playground if he chooses. I glance at the podium set up at the far end of the room where a small stage is draped in gold fabric. Surely he’ll make an appearance there for a speech. “Don’t panic,” I whisper to myself, attempting to inject confidence into my tone. “He can’t have gone far.” I head in the direction of the stage, weaving between clusters of well-dressed attendees. Snatches of conversation wash over me, discussions of property acquisitions, brand deals, political campaigns. And then, quite abruptly, there he is. Damien stands at the edge of the dance floor, flipping through something on his phone, his face lit by the screen’s glow. The static in my brain cuts out, replaced by a crisp, hyper-focused awareness. My gaze zeroes in on him, and for a moment, the rest of the party falls away. Even the music from the orchestra dulls as I watch him slip the phone into his jacket pocket and glance up. I can’t tell if it’s my imagination, but I swear he locks eyes with me from across the room. My heart stutters. I force a neutral expression, lifting my chin, acting as though I’m simply strolling by. Yet inside, I’m sizzling. I hazard a small smile, which I pray looks casually polite rather than shaky as hell. He c***s an eyebrow, a subtle, almost amused expression, and then his lips move. A single word? A question? I can’t quite catch it. Disbelief strikes me. Is he talking to me? The crowd swarms between us, and I lose sight of him for half a second. When he emerges from behind an elegant older couple, he’s only a few feet away. I realize I’ve come to a complete standstill, blocking a waiter who tries to maneuver around me. “Excuse me,” the waiter murmurs apologetically. I step aside, pulse thrashing in my veins. My mouth goes dry. This is it, the moment I’ve imagined since I first took on this assignment. I square my shoulders and stare straight into those cool, penetrating eyes. Damien Blackwood looks at me like a man used to being in control of everything he surveys. He doesn’t smile, yet there’s an undeniable presence in his gaze, challenging, almost daring. My breath feels trapped in my chest. I realize I’m the one who’s supposed to speak first, no, I want to speak first, to steer the conversation. But my usual quick wit falters. Instead, it’s Damien who breaks the silence. “You’re staring like you have questions, care to ask them?” His voice is deeper than I expected, each syllable polished with confidence. The words strike me like a spark. This is the perfect opportunity to pivot into an introduction, flash a professional smile, and lead into some subtle line of questioning. But all I manage is: “Well, you’re the man of the hour, aren’t you?” Smooth, Lana. Really f*****g smooth. My nerves prickle with embarrassment. He tilts his head, an indistinct half-smile ghosting his lips. It’s not warm, but it’s not cruel either. “And who might you be?” “Lana Sterling,” I say, trying to regain some composure. “Freelance journalist.” The moment the word journalist leaves my lips, his expression shifts almost imperceptibly, like a shutter closing behind his gaze. He maintains his politeness, but there’s a new wariness there, a hint of caution. “Ah,” he says softly, letting the sound stretch. “And what brings you here, Ms. Sterling?” I keep my smile in place, drawing on every ounce of professional training. “I’m always on the lookout for compelling stories. A place like this is bound to be full of them.” His gaze is measured, scanning my features. There’s an intensity to it that makes me feel like he’s reading more than the words on my lips. He’s searching for something deeper, like he’s unraveling me with a single glance. “I see,” he replies. “Well, stories have a tendency to pop up in the most unexpected places.” A wry laugh escapes me. “Especially when you least expect them, right?” He doesn’t laugh with me, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Precisely.” The tension between us crackles, part challenge, part undeniable attraction. I open my mouth to continue, maybe to ask a softly-veiled question about his philanthropic projects or the state of the real estate market. But before I can speak, a group of executives intercepts him, clamoring for his attention. One is a stout man with a braying laugh, praising Damien’s latest business venture; another is a tall woman wearing heavy pearls, describing an upcoming fundraiser. Damien acknowledges them with polite nods. As they monopolize him, I step aside, frustration warring with relief. Part of me is grateful for a second to collect myself. Another part is annoyed that my chance to direct the conversation has vanished. I linger near a tall arrangement of white orchids, swirling the dregs of champagne in my glass. My skin prickles in awareness. From the corner of my eye, I can still see Damien, fielding questions and compliments like he was born to do this. He’s not even focusing on me, yet somehow I feel that gravitational pull more strongly than ever. My mind replays the brief exchange: You’re staring like you have questions, care to ask them? A challenge, an invitation, and a warning, all rolled into a few words. How the hell am I supposed to c***k this man when just one look makes my blood buzz? I think of the swirl of rumors surrounding him, money laundering, mafia ties, dark business deals that never see the light of day. It’s the kind of speculation that can destroy reputations, topple empires. He’s a puzzle, one I’m determined to solve, no matter how aggressively my body reacts to him. Downing the last of the champagne, I set the glass aside and slide a fresh flute from a passing tray. I need to keep my head. If I let this attraction overshadow my work, I’m f****d, journalistically speaking. A tap on my shoulder startles me. I turn to see my friend and part-time photographer, Jamie. She looks radiant in a sleek black jumpsuit, camera slung discreetly over one shoulder. “There you are,” she says, tone breathy. “I’ve been trying to catch your eye. Did you see him? Did you see Damien Blackwood?” Her dark eyes sparkle with excitement. “God, I practically melted just looking at him from the other side of the room.” “Yeah,” I mutter, scanning the crowd for any sign of him again. “We exchanged a few words.” “No s**t?” Jamie’s eyebrows rocket upward. “And you’re not dead from sheer intimidation?” I let out a tense laugh. “Believe me, it was touch-and-go for a second. He’s… intense.” “No doubt about that.” She fiddles with her camera, likely itching to snap some candid shots. “You think you can snag an interview? Maybe get a direct quote on the record?” “That’s the plan.” I glance back toward the spot where I last saw him. The executives have drifted off, and Damien is gone. My heart stutters with disappointment. “But he has a way of disappearing.” Jamie rolls her eyes in sympathy, then checks her phone. “There’s a scheduled speech in about half an hour. If we don’t see him before then, we can corner him afterwards.” She hesitates, a line of concern creasing her forehead. “Just… be careful, Lana. This one’s a real big fish.” “Understood.” I pat her arm, forcing a confident grin. “I’ll be fine.” She nods and moves on, presumably to capture the glitz and glam in pictures. Alone again, I slip through the crowd, scanning for any glimpse of that dark hair or that perfectly fitted suit. - Roughly twenty minutes pass, and the ambient buzz of the gala intensifies as people wait for the night’s main event. I keep my eyes peeled for Damien, but I see no sign of him. Anxiety creeps up my spine. I’m not giving up. I find a quiet corner near a set of wide windows overlooking the city. The skyline glitters with a thousand lights. My phone buzzes in my clutch, snapping me from my thoughts. I fish it out and see a text from my editor: Any leads yet? Don’t let him slip away. Scowling at the screen, I type back: Working on it. I’ll have something soon. He’d better not vanish before you get a statement. Word is, big deals are going down. A lump settles in my throat as I pocket my phone. Of course big deals are going down, this is Damien Blackwood, after all. I push off the windowsill and take a few steps, letting the crowd swallow me up again. The band starts a new piece, a lilting waltz, and a handful of couples drift onto the dance floor. There, movement by one of the side exits. A flash of that black suit. My nerves jump. Damien. He’s crossing toward a small corridor that appears to lead to the restrooms and perhaps a quieter lobby. Without overthinking it, I break away from the main ballroom, crossing the threshold into the corridor. My heels echo in the sudden hush. I catch sight of him disappearing around a corner. Quickening my pace, I follow, heart pounding. My mind buzzes with possible openers: Excuse me, Mr. Blackwood, might I have a moment? Or should I be more direct: Damien, about those rumored acquisitions… But as I turn the corner, the corridor is empty except for a single security guard near a door labeled Private. He eyes me with mild disinterest, barely giving me a second glance. Swallowing my frustration, I keep walking. Ahead, there’s a sign pointing left for the restrooms. To the right, a small spiral staircase leads to a mezzanine. The music from the main ballroom grows faint behind me, replaced by the softer hush of an exclusive side area. I venture further. My footsteps slow at the sound of low voices. I step around another corner, pressing myself against the wall. Two men stand near an exit, engaged in urgent conversation. I recognize one of them: the stout executive who was praising Damien earlier. The other is a reedy man with a phone in his hand, voice hushed yet laced with tension. “…We need to ensure Blackwood doesn’t find out until the ink is dry,” the reedy man hisses. My ears perk up. Interesting. The stout executive replies, “I’m telling you, if word leaks, we’re screwed. Do you understand? He’ll cut us off at the knees.” I can’t catch the next line, they lower their voices. Holding my breath, I try to inch closer without giving myself away, but they both glance in my direction. I freeze, heart in my throat. “Who’s there?” the reedy man snaps. I straighten my spine, walking into view with forced confidence. “Just looking for the restrooms,” I say politely. The stout executive’s eyes narrow as though he’s trying to place me. Before either can question me further, I give them a curt nod and swiftly turn on my heel, heading back the way I came. Anxiety ripples across my skin. So there are definitely deals being discussed. People don’t want Damien in the loop. As I rejoin the main corridor, my shoulders relax fractionally. God, I have to be more careful. Eavesdropping on side deals might get me an angle on the story, but it could also blow up in my face if I’m not discreet. I return to the main ballroom just as someone taps the microphone onstage. An elegant older woman in a sequined gown announces the start of the evening’s formalities. My gaze flickers over the crowd, scanning for Damien. A jolt of relief and renewed excitement surges through me when I see him stepping onto the stage with effortless grace. He stands behind the podium, exuding a quiet magnetism that commands the entire room’s attention. The crowd hushes. Cameras flash. I slip into the fringes of the audience, my heart hammering. This is the perfect opportunity to observe him in the spotlight, and maybe catch him afterwards. He greets the crowd with a measured nod, offering a succinct acknowledgement of the charity at the heart of tonight’s gala. He thanks the donors, praises the philanthropic spirit of Manhattan’s elite, and delivers a short anecdote about how “the future depends on forward-thinking individuals coming together for a greater cause.” His tone is rich, self-assured, peppered with just enough warmth to charm. Yet I can’t help feeling there’s a carefully constructed veneer in his speech. Like a polished diamond, it’s all reflective surfaces, no cracks. This is the side he wants everyone to see, a refined billionaire, philanthropic, unstoppable. As he speaks, my mind spins with the conversation I overheard. A direct quote won’t be enough. There’s more going on beneath the surface. I’ll have to dig deeper, far deeper, if I’m to expose the real Damien Blackwood, the man behind the tailored suit and mesmerizing eyes. When he finishes, the audience applauds. The lights brighten slightly, the band begins another melody, and I make my move, inching closer to the stage. This time, I won’t let him slip away. But like a wisp of smoke, he’s immediately swarmed by gala organizers and a string of well-connected donors who want a moment of his time. For the next several minutes, I hover on the sidelines, looking for an opening. My pulse thumps with every small step I take toward him. At last, the crowd thins. Damien shakes the last outstretched hand and glances up. It’s just enough time for me to approach, my heart pounding so loudly I wonder if he can hear it. He turns toward me, and there’s something like recognition flashing in his gaze. The corner of his mouth quirks up, a fractional smirk. He dips his head in a subtle nod, like a silent acknowledgment that he sees me coming. I square my shoulders, letting my confidence override the fiery swirl in my belly. “Mr. Blackwood,” I say, stepping into his personal space. “I was hoping we might continue our earlier conversation.” A slow exhale leaves his lips. “I’m not sure there was much to continue.” “Call it a journalist’s curiosity.” My voice steadies. “People are always interested in what you have to say, especially regarding your latest ventures.” He studies me for a long moment, and I can almost feel him weighing the risks of entertaining my request. Then, to my surprise, he inclines his head. “Very well. Although”, he leans in slightly, his voice lowering, “curiosity can be dangerous, Ms. Sterling.” A thrill zips down my spine. “I’ll take my chances.” That almost-smile tugs at his lips again. “Then follow me,” he says, turning away from the congested crowd. I do, my pulse thrumming with a feverish mix of excitement and trepidation. We walk along the perimeter of the ballroom, weaving among glittering guests, until we reach a quieter nook near an ornate window seat. The velvet drapes hush the sounds of the party, giving us a semblance of privacy. He turns, folding his hands behind his back. Up close, he’s even more imposing, tall, powerful, the faint scent of something musky and clean drifting from him. My eyes flicker down reflexively, catching the outline of his body beneath that finely cut suit. Warmth pools in my belly, and I will myself to stay focused. “So,” he says, voice low but controlled, “what pressing questions weigh on your journalist’s mind?” I steel myself. “What drives a man like you? You’ve got more wealth than entire corporations, enough power to shape the city, and yet you keep your life, business and personal, shadowed in secrecy.” His gaze sharpens. “Are you implying I have something to hide?” My heartbeat kicks up. “We all have something to hide, Mr. Blackwood. But you… yours generates quite a bit of chatter. People are curious about your next move.” He’s silent for a moment, and I sense the tension curling between us, a mix of challenge and undeniable attraction. When he finally speaks, his voice is velvet-lined steel. “The world is full of speculation, Ms. Sterling. But speculation is rarely the truth.” His words are a subtle pushback, and I realize he’s not going to give anything away easily. I open my mouth to press further, but a scuffle of movement draws our attention back to the main floor. A new wave of donors is approaching, presumably to congratulate him. Damien’s jaw tightens. He turns to me with what might be the faintest flicker of regret. “I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this another time.” “Will there be another time?” I ask, unable to hide the dryness in my tone. He sets a hand lightly on my elbow, guiding me a step away from the encroaching crowd. The warmth of his touch is stark against the bare skin above my elbow. My pulse spikes. He bends his head closer. “If you truly want to know my story, Ms. Sterling, you’ll find a way.” His voice, low and conspiratorial, sends a ripple of excitement through me. Holy s**t. This is a game to him. A chase, a power dance. But before I can respond, the swarm arrives, filling the quiet nook with idle chatter and praise for Damien’s speech. I’m forced to step back, letting the donors envelop him. His eyes linger on mine for a charged second, then he shifts his focus to them, his face settling into a polite mask. My heart crashes against my ribs. That moment, that single encounter, has left me buzzing with questions, adrenaline, and an unshakeable, undeniable want. Part of me curses my unprofessional reaction, yet another part is already plotting how to see him again. A waiter passes, offering me a fresh glass of champagne. I snatch it, taking a long gulp. Focus, Lana. You’re a journalist. You need facts, leads, proof of something big. You don’t need to let your head spin over a man simply because he’s gorgeous and exudes enough s****l tension to light up Times Square. I place the empty flute on a nearby table, determined. My job is to rip open Damien Blackwood’s carefully guarded persona. His attraction, or mine, shouldn’t matter. But I can’t deny the pulse of heat between my legs, or the flutter in my stomach. I feel a pang of guilt, as if I’m betraying my mission. No. It doesn’t have to be betrayal. Sometimes you have to play the game from both angles to get the story. And if there’s heat along the way, maybe that’s just a bonus. Or a trap. The gala bustles on, but I stand there, feeling strangely alone in the crowd, recalling the intensity in Damien’s eyes. Then, at the corner of my vision, I catch a glimpse of movement. I whirl, searching for him. But it’s no use. Damien Blackwood is gone. My pulse beats rapidly, echoing the final note from the orchestra’s waltz. Questions swirl in my head: Who is he, really? What dark secrets is he keeping? And why can’t I stop replaying the memory of his powerful physique and that low, challenging voice in my mind? As the night rolls on, the gala’s energy shifts to more dancing, more chatter, the echoes of wealth exchanging hands. I hover on the edge of it all, phone in hand, making small notes, capturing fleeting details. But each time I close my eyes, I see him, tall and broad-shouldered, quietly commanding, a flicker of arrogance behind that perfect mask. When I finally head back to the coat check to collect my wrap, I pause and glance over my shoulder, as if expecting him to reappear out of thin air. He doesn’t. The night feels oddly unfinished, like a book left open mid-chapter. I slip into my coat, my mind dancing with possibilities. One thing is certain: Damien Blackwood has my attention, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get a closer look at the shadows behind his dark, mesmerizing gaze. The real question is whether I’ll emerge unscathed, or wind up entangled in a world far more dangerous than I ever imagined. I step out into the Manhattan night, the city’s lights glittering and cold, and the last thought that echoes through my mind is the promise in Damien’s voice: If you truly want to know my story, Ms. Sterling, you’ll find a way. - With my heart pounding and my thoughts spinning, I vow to find that way, even if it means walking headfirst into the flames. And as a chilly gust of wind brushes against my skin, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve already stepped too far into Damien Blackwood’s orbit to ever escape.