Page 2 of Big Billionaire

Then my gaze lands on him.

Logan.

He’s seated in the front row, legs spread carelessly with one arm around a brunette who leans into him like she’s trying to melt into his side. He holds my gaze, his mouth spreading into that slow, deliberate smirk that I used to think was charming.

My stomach knots painfully, but I lock my knees and keep my chin high.

Not tonight.

I search the crowd for something steadier. Someonesteadier.

Abby.

She’s three rows back, curled into a cream sweater despite the heat, her long dark hair pouring over one shoulder in a loose braid. She meets my gaze, her green eyes—so identical to mine—brimming with an enthusiastic pride. It’s almost like she’s willing her strength into me from her seat. Her lips tilt into a small, steady smile that immediately anchors my emotions.

I breathe deeper, my chest loosening. This is for her.

The music swells. I let it pull me forward, my body bending and turning, each movement carrying me further from the noise in my head.

Then I lift my gaze again and freeze—for a fraction of a beat.

Because there he is.

Damien Blackwell, founder of Blackwell Academy. And my ex’s father.

He looks as handsome as ever in a dark tailored tux that fits like it was stitched to his body. The sharp cut of his jaw catches the light when he tilts his head, shadow and definition making him look even more dangerous. Steel-gray eyes lock on me fromacross the hall—calm, steady, but so intense it feels like they strip me bare. His dark hair is slicked back in a way that should make him look untouchable, but all I can think about is how badly I’ve wanted to touch him.

My next step almost falters, but I push through it. Because if there’s one thing more dangerous than dancing in front of the Academy’s panel…it’s dancing under Damien Blackwell’s gaze.

Chapter Two

Damien

I shouldn’t be here.

All day, I told myself that I have more important things to do—meetings, contracts, anything to keep me away from this performance. I told myself staying away is the right thing.

But then the selfish bastard in me won.

She’s half my age. Too young. She has her whole life ahead of her, and deserves someone younger, brighter, kinder than me. That’s what I keep telling myself.

But it doesn’t matter. Because from the moment I saw her a year ago, bent over the barre in the Academy’s practice room, dark hair spilling over one shoulder, green eyes focused on her reflection, long legs stretching with perfect control…I knew I was fucked.

Lena Clarke.

Slender, graceful…with a quiet fire in her that most people here will never see. But I see it. I seeher.

I tried to forget her. Tried to bury the memory under work and responsibility. And by the time I lost the war against reason, she was dating Logan, my son.

Even then, when she was more off-limits than ever, I couldn’t stop wanting her. Watching her.

My firefly.

She has no idea I call her that. She reminds me of a firefly when she dances…glowing, untouchable, lighting up the dark. I’ve had dreams about her, filthy dreams where those wings brush over my skin, where she bends for me, opens for me, where every inch of her is mine to claim and keep.

Now she’s here, on my stage.

The music swells, and she moves like she was born for this. Every step, every line of her body, every turn pulls me deeper. Her face is calm, but I’ve been watching her long enough to spot the small tells…how her fingers twitch before she spins, how her chest rises just a fraction higher when she’s fighting for control.