I'm the Billionaires' Secret

A Hint of Danger

POV: Lana Sterling

-

The buzz of danger always follows a good story, tonight, it’s practically screaming in my ear.

-

Tonight’s gala at the Grand Aurora Hotel pulses with an undercurrent I can’t quite put my finger on. The air crackles with secrets waiting to be uncovered, and I’m determined not to let them slip through my fingers. After my earlier brush with Damien Blackwood, Manhattan’s most enigmatic billionaire, I can’t stop thinking about the steel in his gaze, the seductive promise just beneath the surface of his calm facade.

He disappeared into the crowd before I could press for more details about the rumors swirling around him: mafia ties, black-market dealings, a labyrinth of offshore accounts, none of it confirmed, all of it fodder for my story. I can practically taste the headline, but I know better than to rush in blind. A man like Damien doesn’t play by anyone else’s rules.

Glancing around the ballroom, I catch sight of golden chandeliers shimmering overhead, casting warm light on the swirling dancers. The live orchestra swells into a new piece, violins and cellos weaving a dramatic melody that mirrors my own escalating excitement. Women in evening gowns and men in tuxedos drift across the dance floor, oblivious to the tension that knots my stomach.

I smooth a hand down the front of my dress, a sleek, black number that clings to my curves, and shift on my heels. Earlier, my editor texted: “Make it count. Get the f*****g scoop.” The words flash in my mind, fueling my determination.

A passing waiter offers me a flute of champagne. I accept it with a smile, though my focus is pinned on the cluster of high-rollers gathered in an alcove just beyond the dance floor. They exchange hushed words and cautious glances, occasionally looking my way. My reporter’s instinct pings. Something is happening here, something big.

I drift closer, pretending to admire a marble statue of a rearing horse. The hush of their conversation ebbs and flows in a mixture of low voices and terse laughter. From the corner of my eye, I spy a familiar face: the stout executive who was praising Damien earlier. He gestures animatedly, sweat beading on his brow despite the cool room. Another man, a tall, lanky figure in a custom-tailored suit, listens intently, chewing on his lower lip. The tension in their posture is tangible.

Straining my ears, I catch snippets:

“...told you, we can’t move forward until we have Blackwood in on it...”

“...damn man’s resources are endless...”

“...he’ll bury us if we cross him...”

My pulse thuds. Damien’s name. Resources. Threats of being buried. This is exactly the lead I’ve been hoping for, but I need hard proof, something more than whispered gossip. The conversation fades away when they notice me hovering. The stout exec glares, his expression dripping with suspicion. I flash him my best innocent smile, then swirl the champagne in my glass as if I haven’t been eavesdropping this entire time.

I’m about to edge away when a hand brushes lightly across my shoulder, almost making me jump. The clean, musky scent of cologne hits me before I turn my head. And then, there he is, Damien Blackwood, standing at my side, gaze cool and face unreadable. He inclines his head toward the men, who quickly disperse, as though the mere presence of their boss (or perhaps their rival) is enough to send them scattering.

A chill, equal parts apprehension and excitement, rolls down my spine. At once, I’m hyperaware of everything: the warmth of the air against my skin, the way my heart flips at the sight of his broad shoulders, the memory of the outline of his c**k shifting beneath that tailored suit. It stirs something hot and electric in the pit of my stomach. I hate how obvious I must be. At the same time, I can’t help but notice his eyes flick down, like he senses the sudden spike in my arousal. Damn him.

He’s close enough that when he speaks, his breath ghosts over my ear. “Ms. Sterling,” he murmurs, voice so deep it vibrates through my bones. “Investigative journalist. You dig where you shouldn’t.”

I will my heart not to leap out of my chest, forcing a casual shrug instead. “Maybe. But secrets only stay buried for so long.”

His mouth curves slightly, not a smile, exactly, but enough to make my pulse quicken. “True. Then again, some are kept hidden for a reason.”

“I’m guessing you speak from experience?” I say, arching an eyebrow, trying to ignore the slow, liquid heat that’s pooling between my thighs. It’s mortifying how my body reacts to him, but there’s no denying the rush.

He slides his gaze to the side, surveying the crowd. People watch us with polite curiosity, though none venture too close. Maybe they sense the tension rolling off Damien in waves, or maybe they’re just used to giving him space. Whatever the reason, I’m acutely aware that we’re attracting attention.

“You’re persistent,” Damien finally says. “A dangerous trait in this world.”

“I could say the same about having money and power,” I retort. “That combination can be lethal.”

He laughs softly, the sound rich and low, dancing over my nerves. “Do you always come out swinging?”

“Only when there’s something worth fighting for.” My voice holds steady, to my relief. I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on.

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the rest of the gala fades into the background. It’s just me and him, journalist and billionaire. He’s so close, I can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the subtle stubble along his jaw. My gaze flicks down, shamefully drawn toward the thick outline just under his belt line. His suit pants cling to his muscular thighs, and I swallow hard, cheeks flaming. Yet I can’t look away.

And he f*****g knows it.

The corner of his mouth curves up another fraction, amusement gleaming in his eyes. Heat floods my cheeks, and I force my gaze back up to his face, ashamed at how obviously I was staring. My insides clench with a combination of arousal and mortification, but I keep my composure, refusing to break his gaze.

“Well, Ms. Sterling,” he says quietly, stepping closer, “I’ll give you this, you’ve piqued my interest. Not many people have the nerve to stare me down like that.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Blackwood,” I lie, my words catching slightly in my throat.

He c***s his head, a flicker of amusement in his expression. “Is that so? Because it looks like you have a healthy sense of self-preservation. I see it in your eyes.”

I swallow, fighting the urge to step back. f**k, he’s good at reading people. “I’m just careful where I step.”

“You should be.” His voice dips, taking on a more dangerous note. “Manhattan’s a place of illusions, hidden under pretty masks and expensive suits. You, more than anyone, should know that.”

My heart clenches. Does he suspect I’ve been snooping, digging for dirt? Part of me wants to push him, to see how he’ll react if I confront him about the rumors directly. Another part warns me to keep my cards close to my chest. I decide on a middle ground.

“I’ve heard things,” I say, feigning casual indifference. “Stories about your… ruthless deals.”

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans in, voice dropping so low I can barely hear it over the orchestra’s melody. “Then you should know rumors rarely capture the truth. And the truth can be more perilous than you realize.”

“Perilous for whom?” I challenge, eyes narrowing.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “For anyone who goes looking for it.”

The tension between us is so thick, it’s almost suffocating. The hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the distant waltz of the orchestra, they’re all secondary to the electricity pulsing in the air. My n*****s tighten against the fabric of my dress, and I silently curse my body’s traitorous reaction. All of my senses are on overdrive, a raw awareness swirling in my gut.

I open my mouth to fire back another question, but before I can, a slender woman in a crimson gown approaches, pressing a manicured hand to Damien’s shoulder. She’s gorgeous, with high cheekbones and a practiced pout. Her gaze flicks between me and Damien, icy judgment flickering across her features.

“Damien, darling,” she purrs, “I’ve been looking for you.”

He flicks her a cursory glance. “Rachel.”

Rachel’s fake smile never reaches her eyes as she measures me up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were… occupied.”

I offer a tight, polite smile, stepping aside. Damien doesn’t bother making introductions, and it’s clear from the woman’s possessive stance that she believes she has some claim on him. My stomach twists with an irrational surge of jealousy, which I quickly tamp down. I’m here for a story, not to stake a claim on a billionaire I’ve known for all of two seconds.

Still, the presence of this woman underscores the reality: Damien Blackwood exists in a world where beautiful people hover around him, all wanting a piece of his attention. Another reason for me to be cautious, he’s used to being chased, indulged, worshipped. If I want a story, I need to be smarter than his usual orbiters.

Damien straightens his lapels and steps away from Rachel’s grasp, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary. “Ms. Sterling,” he says quietly, dipping his head. “Enjoy the gala. But remember, curiosity has a price.”

Before I can formulate a response, he turns on his heel and glides away with Rachel in tow, quickly swallowed by the sea of designer suits and gowns. I exhale, my pulse still drumming an erratic tempo. Being near him feels like stepping into a ring with a coiled snake, dangerous, captivating, and thrilling all at once.

I linger near the edge of the ballroom, replaying the conversation in my mind. Damien’s cryptic remarks, his knowing smirk, and the way I couldn’t stop my gaze from roaming over his body. The memory alone makes my thighs clench. It’s been a long time since a man had this effect on me, and I’m determined not to let it cloud my judgment.

Journalist first, woman second.

I release a slow breath and swirl the remnants of my champagne, then down it in one gulp. For a moment, I debate heading home to debrief, but no, there’s more to uncover tonight. Danger may be whispering in my ear, but it’s exactly what I came for.

-

I slip away from the main ballroom, drifting through grand hallways lit by ornate sconces. Along the way, I overhear pockets of conversation:

“...heard Damien shut down an entire production overnight...”

“...they say he’s associated with a certain… group… in Eastern Europe...”

“...the man’s unstoppable. Cross him, and you disappear...”

My heart beats faster. Half of these rumors sound exaggerated, straight out of a gangster flick. But there must be a grain of truth in them. I’m certain Damien Blackwood isn’t squeaky clean, no billionaire with this level of power is. But the extent of his potential criminal ties remains to be discovered.

I round a corner into a smaller lounge area, richly furnished with velvet drapes and plush chairs. The distant strains of the orchestra fade to a softer hum here. A few guests lounge about, sipping expensive scotch and talking in conspiratorial murmurs. My intuition prickles, urging me to listen.

I settle into a chair near a pair of middle-aged men in suits. One fiddles anxiously with his cufflinks, glancing around. The other leans forward, face set in a worried scowl.

“...and if Blackwood cuts our funding? We’re f****d,” the cufflink-fiddler hisses, voice tight.

His companion mutters, “He won’t cut it if we show loyalty. You know how he operates, be useful or be gone.”

Cufflink Guy exhales shakily. “I can’t believe we’re tangled up in this. It was supposed to be a straightforward investment deal. Now...” He trails off, eyes darting.

The other man hushes him, nodding at me. I feign disinterest, pulling out my phone to look occupied. My heart pounds at their words: be useful or be gone. That’s a chilling ultimatum in any context, especially when tied to Damien.

I snap a quick photo of my phone’s screen, just my home screen, but angled as though I’m recording. They clam up, and a moment later, both men stand and hastily leave. So much for that.

A niggling sense of unease tells me to keep my eyes open. Whatever Damien’s tangled in, these high-society types are afraid of him. There’s more to this than just corporate power plays.

I check my messages again, half-hoping my editor might have some new lead. Nothing. I scowl at the screen, then slip the phone back into my clutch. Maybe I should head home, gather my notes, and come back to this fresh in the morning.

The thought barely settles when an unfamiliar voice whispers from behind me, “You should be more careful, Ms. Sterling.”

I whip around, adrenaline spiking, to find a man I’ve never seen before. He’s older, dressed in a neat black suit, salt-and-pepper hair framing a tired face. He stands at a respectful distance, hands clasped in front of him.

“Who are you?” I manage, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

He ignores my question, gaze darting to the door behind me. “You keep sniffing around like this, it won’t end well. Mr. Blackwood doesn’t tolerate meddlers.”

My stomach clenches. “I’m just doing my job.”

The man’s expression remains impassive. “I suggest finding another story.”

Before I can retort, he pivots and leaves without a backward glance. My pulse thrums as I watch him go. So Damien has people watching me now? Or perhaps it’s someone else entirely. Either way, the implication is clear: I’m poking a hornet’s nest, and the hornets are stirring.

I exhale shakily, forcing myself to remain calm. This isn’t my first high-stakes story, though it may be my most dangerous. A part of me screams to turn back, to drop this. But I can’t. There’s too much at stake, too many rumors swirling around Damien. He’s the key to something big, and my instincts refuse to let me walk away.

-

Back in the main ballroom, I spot Jamie, my photographer friend, snapping pictures of the well-dressed crowd. Relief loosens the knot in my chest. At least I’m not entirely alone here.

“Hey,” she greets, lowering her camera. “You look spooked. Everything okay?”

I manage a tight smile. “I’ve just been hearing some… interesting conversations.”

Her eyebrows arch. “About Blackwood?”

I nod, glancing around to ensure no one is eavesdropping. “People are terrified of him, Jamie. I think I just got warned off by one of his goons.”

She grimaces. “s**t. That sounds intense.”

“Yeah. I’m trying to piece things together. It’s like there’s a whole undercurrent of corruption and fear in this place, and Damien’s at the center.”

She lifts her camera again, snapping a shot of a passing socialite. “Be careful, Lana,” she murmurs after the flash. “This isn’t the usual celebrity scandal or corporate misstep. This feels bigger.”

“I know.” I swallow hard. “But I can’t stop now.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder, concern in her features. “Just… don’t do anything reckless, alright?”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Reckless? Me?”

Jamie manages a small smile. “Promise me you’ll look out for yourself.”

“I promise.”

We exchange a quick hug, then she moves on to capture more photos. I steel myself, taking a moment to breathe. Nerves jitter in my stomach, but I push through them, determined to prove I can handle this.

-

As midnight nears, some guests begin filtering out, while others shift gears, heading to the open bar or the dance floor for a final waltz. I linger near the edge, scanning for Damien. I want another chance to talk to him, to push the conversation further, glean more from his guarded demeanor.

Finally, I catch sight of him across the ballroom, standing with a trio of men who look like bankers or hedge-fund managers. Even from here, I notice the tension in his shoulders. He’s smiling, but it’s cold, perfunctory. One of the men tries to laugh at something, and Damien barely glances at him.

Summoning courage, I start in his direction. This time, I won’t let anything sidetrack me. I’ll ask him point-blank about the rumors. But as I close in, he seems to sense my approach. He offers the men a curt nod and steps away, meeting me halfway.

“Ms. Sterling,” he greets me, a trace of irritation in his eyes, like he’s resigned to dealing with me tonight.

I stop inches from him, heart pounding. The quiet power that radiates off this man is something else entirely. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

A muscle in his jaw tics. “That’s becoming a habit.”

“Let’s call it professional curiosity.”

He exhales slowly, glancing around. More people are looking at us now, though they pretend otherwise. “Not here,” he says finally, nodding toward the far corner of the room. “We’ll talk privately.”

I follow him to a small alcove near a curtained window, my heels clicking on the marble floor. The heavy fabric mutes the noise of the ballroom, granting us a semblance of privacy, though we remain in plain sight if anyone cares to look.

Damien turns to face me. In the low light, his features are cast in shadows, sharp angles and uncompromising lines. My breath catches when I notice how he’s standing, feet planted firmly, broad shoulders squared. The same display of quiet, solid confidence I witnessed earlier.

“All right,” he says, voice even. “Ask your questions.”

I steel my spine, ignoring the warmth pooling in my belly at his nearness. “People say you have ties to the underworld. That you use your money to control politicians, buy out the competition, and ruin whoever stands in your way. Is that true?”

He arches a brow, letting the accusations hang in the air. “Which people, exactly?”

“Sources I don’t plan on revealing,” I reply, lifting my chin. “But I’ve heard enough tonight to know something’s off.”

Damien’s gaze narrows, voice turning colder. “Be mindful of the company you keep, Ms. Sterling. Some sources may have their own agendas.”

“So you’re not denying it.”

A faint smirk touches his lips. “I’m not confirming it either.”

Frustration coils inside me. “That’s not an answer.”

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “You want answers? Fine. Here’s one: In this city, power doesn’t come without enemies. And enemies will say anything to discredit someone they fear.”

I swallow. “So it’s all just lies?”

He pauses, eyes drifting over my face, reading the doubt there. “Not everything is black and white, Ms. Sterling. There’s truth in every lie, and a lie in every truth. I do what’s necessary to protect what’s mine.”

A shiver travels along my spine, and I catch the double meaning: he doesn’t care about moral costs, so long as he maintains control. I open my mouth to press further, but before I can, he moves impossibly closer, towering frame blocking out the rest of the room.

I catch a whiff of his cologne, a blend of clean musk and something dangerous. My heart flutters. He’s too close. My mind flashes again to the thick shape under his suit. Awareness flutters hot between my legs. Dammit, focus, Lana.

“Why do you want this story so badly?” Damien asks, voice a husky murmur. “Is it glory? Fame? Or are you just driven by that insatiable curiosity?”

His proximity throws me off balance, but I force myself not to step back. “It’s my job,” I say, though the words sound inadequate even to my ears. “People have a right to know who holds real power. And, well, maybe I’m sick of people like you thinking you can pull the strings with no accountability.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “People like me?”

I lift my chin, refusing to wither under his gaze. “Billionaires who think the rules don’t apply.”

He studies me in silence, tension coiling in the narrow space between our bodies. Something flickers in his eyes, amusement, perhaps, or admiration for my nerve. Then, abruptly, he steps away. The loss of his heat sends an unwanted pang through me.

“Be careful, Ms. Sterling,” he says softly. “Some answers cost more than you can afford.”

The finality in his tone rattles me, and I wonder if he’s truly warning me or just threatening me. Before I can respond, he glances around to see if anyone’s watching, then leans in so close that his breath warms the shell of my ear.

“Drop this while you still can,” he murmurs. “I’d hate to see someone with your spark get snuffed out.”

He pulls back, his gaze lingering on my face. My heart pounds like a frantic drum. A swirl of emotions, fear, anger, a dangerous thrill, flood my veins. I open my mouth to retort, but words fail me.

And with that, Damien slips into the crowd, vanishing as if he was never there. He leaves me breathless, riddled with questions, and aching in ways I refuse to name. My body hums with unresolved tension, my fingers itching to grab him and demand more—more answers, more closeness, more of everything he embodies.

Instead, I stand rooted to the spot, reeling from his warning. Some answers cost more than you can afford.

All I can think is that I’m already paying the price, my head spins, my blood is on fire, and I can’t stop chasing the enigma that is Damien Blackwood. Even as caution flares, I know I won’t heed it. Curiosity got me here, and it’s not letting me go.

-

As I watch him disappear into the swirling throng of tuxedos and gowns, a hollow ache opens in my chest. I don’t know whether it’s dread or desire. Maybe both. One thing is clear: I’m in over my head, and there’s no turning back now.