I'm the Billionaires' Secret

The Cautious Game

POV: Damien Blackwood

--

I’ve never let anyone corner me, but this woman… she sees through my façade, and I f*****g hate how much I crave it.

--

The alley smells of spilled champagne, gutter‑water, and expensive perfume that doesn’t belong out here. A single orange streetlamp buzzes overhead, its dying light casting jittery halos across rain‑slick bricks. I take a slow breath, tapping the cufflink‑knife hidden at my wrist - old habit, one I picked up long before the tuxedos and boardrooms replaced leather jackets and alley fights. Every muscle coils, waiting.

Lana Sterling stands a few paces ahead, thin moonlight catching the silver in her eyes. She hugs her coat tighter, shoulders squared in defiance even though her pulse leaps at her throat. I can see it - feel it - because I’ve been trained to read the smallest tells. Her chin tilts up when she hears footsteps deeper in the darkness, but she refuses to back down.

She doesn’t realize the threat isn’t just the ghost in the shadows - it’s me.

I step beside her, close enough that my coat brushes her bare arm. “You don’t want to be here after dark,” I murmur. My voice comes out rougher than intended, scraped by the clang of distant metal and the hiss of rain beginning to fall.

She flinches, breath fogging between us, then levels me with that maddening stare. “You think I can’t handle myself?”

I run a hand through my hair, the damp night slicking it back. “I think you can handle a lot,” I reply, letting the last word drag across my tongue. My gaze drops to her mouth, to the subtle tremor in her lower lip - not fear, but something hotter. “But some things aren’t worth the risk.”

Her eyes narrow. “Nice proverb. Does it come embroidered on your silk handkerchiefs - right next to the bloodstains you try to wash out?”

God, she pushes every button. Part of me wants to shove her against the wall just to feel her fight back - another part wants to haul her into my arms because the dangerous glint in her eyes makes my pulse hammer in places I thought were dead.

I angle my body between her and the mouth of the alley. Beyond us, tires screech two blocks over. A glass bottle shatters. Someone curses. All normal city noise, but tonight it feels orchestrated - as if unseen hands are herding us.

“Look,” I say, softer now, “let me take you home.”

She folds her arms. The motion pulls her coat open, and the damp alley light outlines her curves, the way her dress clings after the drizzle. It takes sheer willpower not to linger on the hard peaks of her n*****s pressing against silk. She knows I notice. I swear I feel her heartbeat kick when she sees my jaw tighten.

“I don’t need a chauffer.”

“I’m not offering a ride. I’m offering security.”

“From what?”

“From the kind of people who send messages in broken bones and bullet holes.”

Her brows lift. “Meaning you.”

Meaning me. Meaning the empire of silent corridors and closed‑door deals I’ve built to keep other monsters from clawing out of their graves. She doesn’t know half of it. Thank God.

“Come on,” I say, stepping close enough that her breath hitches. I lower my voice. “Humor me.”

I expect her to shove me away. Instead she studies my face like she might catch her reflection in my sins. Lightning flickers somewhere far‑off - just enough to paint fissures of light in her eyes. Finally, she nods.

I touch the small of her back, electricity crackling from that single contact. She tenses, then melts just a fraction, like she hates herself for craving the heat that sparks between us. My fingers linger half a second too long.

Fucking focus, Blackwood.

I lead her to the mouth of the alley where my driver, Jansen, has the Bentley idling. The black paint drinks the streetlamp’s glow. Jansen’s silhouette stays watchful behind the wheel; I trained him personally. He won’t ask questions.

Before we reach the car I feel eyes again - different angle, same weight. Someone is definitely watching, but my security team hasn’t reported any tail. Either my men are slipping or the watcher is too close, too clever.

Adrenaline snaps through my veins. I guide Lana quicker. She notices, stiffening. “What is it?”

“Get in,” I whisper.

The Bentley’s door glides open. Lana hesitates. “I’m not a damsel.”

“No,” I agree. “You’re a f*****g storm. Now move.”

She climbs in, muttering curses. I slide next to her, shut the door, and tap twice on the partition. The car pulls away.

Inside it smells of leather and rain. Streetlights streak the tinted windows like molten gold. Lana crosses her legs, knee brushing my thigh. That small contact sends molten heat straight to my groin. I shift, irritated that she rattles me this badly.

She tilts her head. “Still playing bodyguard?”

“Still refusing to admit you need one.”

“Maybe I want to see the monster’s lair for myself.”

I laugh, low and humorless. “You have no idea what my lair looks like.” Images flash - underground vaults, biometric locks, files stamped CLASSIFIED. Lana would destroy me if she saw half the documents stored there. Or she’d try. I’m not even sure anymore.

The partition glass hums as Jansen accelerates. My phone vibrates. I glance: secure message from Quinn, head of security.

TARGET SHADOW MOVING WEST PAXTON. POSSIBLE EYES ON YOU.

I swallow a curse. I tap a cryptic reply - mirror route, deploy decoy.

Lana watches. “Problems?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Ah, your favorite line.” She leans back, hair spilling over the headrest. My gaze maps the column of her throat down to the hollow where her dress exposes smooth skin. I imagine sinking my teeth there - marking her. Heat flares so hard I almost forget the threat chasing us.

I clear my throat. “I meant what I said. You shouldn’t chase this story.”

“And I meant what I said - nothing will stop me from finding the truth.”

“Even if it kills you?” The words scrape out sharper than intended.

Her eyes soften. “You sound like you care.”

“I don’t.” Lie. “I just hate cleaning up collateral damage.”

She smiles like she sees straight through me. “Damien, your soul is showing. Better tuck it back in before someone steals it.”

Fuck, she’s infuriating.

--

Ten minutes later the car veers onto Bridgeview, a deserted overpass that overlooks the city’s glittering veins. Jansen slows. I press the partition intercom. “Run the detour. Make sure we’re not followed.”

“Yes, sir.”

I turn to Lana. The city lights paint her profile in gold and shadow. My hand lifts, almost brushing her cheek, then stops mid‑air.

“You’re shivering.”

“It’s cold.”

“I turned the heat up.”

“Not that kind of cold.” She hugs herself. “Something about the way you look at me makes the air electric. I can’t tell if that’s good or bad.”

Jesus. “Probably bad.”

Silence pulses. My heart thunders. For a second I consider honesty - telling her why a man like me locks doors behind his heart, why he bulldozes feelings before they bloom. But the wheel in my chest spins ruthlessly: secrets or survival. Pick one.

“You asked earlier what I want,” she murmurs. “I want the same thing you do.”

“And what’s that?”

“To stop looking over my shoulder.” Her voice cracks. “To live without fearing the next shadow.”

I swallow hard. That shadow has my name etched on it. Or rather, the name of the syndicate I crawled out from. I once thought I’d buried those ghosts under corporate gloss, but ghosts don’t stay buried when restless men keep shovels.

My phone vibrates again. Unknown number this time. The text preview glows like a dagger.

SHE’S ONTO YOU. ELIMINATE THE PROBLEM OR LOSE EVERYTHING.

Heat drains from my face. I grip the phone until my knuckles go white.

Lana notices. “Damien?”

I tuck the phone away. “Nothing.” But the word is ash on my tongue.

She leans closer, studying me. The scent of her - jasmine, rain, and something uniquely Lana - wraps around my brain like silk cuffs. She’s so close I can see flecks of silver in her irises. Her lips part, perhaps to ask again.

I catch myself staring at her mouth, and suddenly the only thing I want is to taste her, to let all that frustration and desire explode between our tongues. I inhale sharply, fists clenching.

Not tonight. Not when death‑threats dance behind my eyelids.

I force out a breath. “We’re almost at your place.”

Her brows knit. “How do you know where I live?”

Shit. “Research.”

“Stalker.”

“Hypocrite.”

She laughs, low and warm, but it fades when she sees my expression. “Damien, what’s wrong?”

I shake my head. It’s safer if she doesn’t know. Safer if she hates me. Safer if she believes I’m the villain - because maybe I am.

The Bentley glides to a stop by her apartment building. Streetlamps gleam off rain puddles. The neighborhood is borderline rough; the kind of place where dreams go to overdose. I should buy her a condo uptown. The thought jolts - where the hell did that come from?

I step out first, scanning rooftops. No movement besides a lone cat darting under a dumpster. Still, my spine tingles. I open her door, offer a hand.

She accepts, fingers sliding over mine. Heat spears up my arm. She stands, rain misting her hair. Water beads on her lashes. I tuck a strand behind her ear before I can stop myself. Her breath catches.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I should leave. Instead I lean in, inches from her lips. “Stay alert, Lana.” My gaze dips to her mouth again. God, I want -

My phone vibrates a third time. Same unknown sender. The message repeats, but this time with a photo: a sniper’s red dot fixed on Lana’s profile as she sat in the car seconds ago.

Ice floods my veins.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Get inside. Now.”

She frowns but heads for the stoop. I follow, scanning rooftops again. My left hand hovers near the gun holster hidden beneath my suit jacket.

As she unlocks the door, she pauses. “Damien… why do I feel like I’m the one protecting your secrets now?”

Before I can answer, a metal clang echoes from the alley across the street. I whirl, gun half‑drawn, but nothing moves. Just wind tossing a trash‑can lid.

Or so it wants me to believe.

I turn back. Lana’s already inside, staring at me through the glass vestibule. She lifts a hand, worry etched on her face. I force a reassuring nod. She disappears down the hall.

The door clicks shut. Isolation slams into me harder than any bullet.

I exhale, thumb hovering over the phone screen. Arm’s shaking now - anger, fear, desire, all knotted into one toxic brew.

She’s onto you. Eliminate the problem or lose everything.

Fuck that. No one threatens her. They’ll have to go through me first.

But protecting her means dragging her deeper into my darkness. And if she drowns, her blood is on my hands.

I pocket the phone, steps retreating down the slick sidewalk. Rain thickens, hammering the pavement like gunfire. I pull my collar up, mind racing with contingency plans, kill‑orders, and the undeniable truth screaming in my chest:

I can’t let Lana Sterling die.

--

Across the street, hidden on a rooftop behind a rusted billboard, a figure lowers a scope. Rain slides down their gloved hands.

“Target secured,” a voice rasps into a mic. “Blackwood took the bait. Awaiting next directive.”