I Grabbed a Cold, Dangerous Billionaire at My Ex’s Engagement Gala and Begged Him to Pretend to Be My Boyfriend—I Had No Idea He Was the Most Feared Tycoon in the Country, and by Midnight, He Refused to Let Me Go

By the time I realized the stranger whose face I was holding was Enzo Romano, it
was already far too late to behave like a woman with functioning judgment.

Both of my hands were on his cheeks.

Not one.

Both.

My fingertips were pressed firmly against the razor-sharp cut of his jawline. My
thumbs were hovering dangerously close to the plush curve of his bottom lip, and
I was standing so absurdly close that the deep burgundy silk of my tailored
floor-length gown was brushing against the obsidian fabric of his hand-stitched
Italian dress shirt.

Unfortunately, that was not even the most catastrophic part of the scene.

The catastrophic part was the desperate, breathless sentence I had just hissed
into the three inches of space separating our mouths:

“Act like my boyfriend.”

The stranger stared down at me.

No sudden smile.

No flicker of confusion.

No polite or alarmed refusal.

Only a heavy, terrifyingly calm, amber-eyed stare that made the air in my lungs
feel like liquid nitrogen.

I swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in my throat.

Okay, Natalie, I thought frantically. Perhaps you should have selected someone
friendlier. Someone shorter. Someone whose expression doesn't look like he
regularly signs off on the quiet dismantling of entire corporate empires.

Behind him, three enormous men built like industrial brick walls had completely
frozen in place.

One of them held a champagne flute halfway to his parted lips.

Another looked as if his brain had physically rebooted and forgotten how the
biological mechanism of blinking worked.

The third slowly leaned toward the man whose face I was currently treating like
a steering wheel.

“Boss…” the bodyguard croaked.

I heard the man. I really did.

I simply had a far more pressing, soul-crushing crisis bearing down on me at
approximately three miles per hour.

Twenty feet behind me, weaving gracefully through the crystal-lit crowd of the
Grand Plaza Ballroom, was Julian Cross. And clinging tightly to Julian’s
tuxedo-clad arm was Camille Lauron.

Camille was tall, golden-blonde, effortlessly Parisian, and currently draped in
a liquid-gold silk gown that probably cost more than the catering budget for
this entire charity event.

She was also the exact woman Julian had begun parading around society pages less
than seventy-two hours after spending six grueling months telling me he “just
wasn't in a place where he could offer emotional commitment.”

Apparently, commitment hadn't required therapy or personal growth. It had simply
required an offshore trust fund and European cheekbones.

My jaw tightened until my molars ground together.

Absolutely not.

I had spent six weeks planning this high-society gala. Six endless weeks
coordinating stubborn florists, temperamental five-star caterers, high-strung
security details, twenty-piece jazz orchestras, intricate seating charts for
warring socialites, and one hedge-fund donor who had demanded his table be
relocated because the crystal chandelier above it was giving his aura
"financially negative frequencies."

Natalie Parker had survived all of that with a smile.

I was not going to spend the final two hours of this evening letting Julian
Cross look at me with pitying, smug condescension while asking how my "little
event business" was holding up.

I tightened my fingers slightly against the stranger’s jaw.

His dark eyebrows lowered by a fraction of a millimeter.

“Please,” I whispered.

Still nothing.

I risked a frantic glance over my shoulder.

Julian was ten seconds away. He had just dodged a waiter carrying canapés and
was heading directly toward our floral alcove with that patented, patronizing
half-smile plastered across his handsome, treacherous face.

I snapped my gaze back to the stranger.

Up close, the man was unfairly, offensively striking.

Wavy, jet-black hair pushed casually back from a high forehead. A jawline carved
out of dark marble. Shoulders so broad they practically blocked out the ambient
chandelier light behind him, stretching the dark fabric of his tailored shirt to
its absolute limit. A platinum Patek Philippe watch glinted quietly beneath his
cuff—understated, lethal wealth.

He looked like the kind of man luxury architects designed penthouse suites
around.

Perfect, my manic brain decided. All you have to do is stand here and look like
you're madly in love with me for forty-five seconds. How difficult can
high-society acting be?

I leaned up on my tiptoes, bringing my mouth even closer to his ear.

“Look obsessed with me,” I commanded softly.

Behind him, one of the brick-wall bodyguards actually choked.

A violent, wheezing cough erupted from the man holding the champagne glass. The
bodyguard beside him began rapidly smacking him on the back with a meaty palm.

The stranger’s dark amber eyes flicked briefly toward his choking security
detail, then returned to lock onto mine with laser-guided intensity.

I gave him a tight, desperate smile through clenched teeth.

“You can do that, right? Obsessed?”

His voice finally came.

It was low. Controlled. A dark, resonant baritone that sent a sudden, electric
shiver skittering down my spine.

“You want me to look obsessed?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“With you.”

I blinked. “Well, preferably not with the floral arrangement behind us.”

His gaze slid lazily toward the eight-foot arch of imported white Ecuadorian
roses at our shoulders.

Then his eyes traveled back down to my face, tracing the bridge of my nose,
dropping to my lips, and rising back to my eyes with deliberate, devastating
slowness.

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch appeared at the far right corner of his
mouth.

Not a smile.

An almost-smile.

“Good,” I whispered urgently, tapping his cheek. “That. Keep that exact
expression.”

His dark brows drew together. “That almost-smile?”

Behind him, the bodyguard who had choked made another strangled, high-pitched
whistling noise through his nose.

I lifted one index finger from his jaw and held it near his mouth like an acting
coach running an intensive workshop. “Do that again when he gets here. Soften
your eyes by two percent.”

The stranger stared down at my hovering finger. Then his gaze lifted to mine.

In that quiet microsecond, the sheer insanity of my actions finally crashed
through my adrenaline.

I was giving micro-expression acting notes to a fully grown, terrifyingly
imposing billionaire whom I had met precisely fourteen seconds ago.

Bold, Natalie. Exceptionally bold.

Unfortunately, the train of bad decisions had already left the station at two
hundred miles per hour. Julian was now three paces away.

“Please,” I breathed, letting my hands slide down his jaw, resting my fingertips
against the hard planes of his collarbone. “Thirty seconds. That’s all I need to
survive this.”

Something shifted in the depths of his amber eyes.

A dangerous, predatory amusement flared beneath the surface.

Whatever calculation ran through his mind, he made his decision.

Slowly, deliberately, his large, warm hand moved down and settled firmly around
the curve of my waist.

My entire nervous system short-circuited.

I had asked the man to participate. I had not anticipated that he would be
terrifyingly proficient at physical intimacy.

His palm was heavy, burning through the thin burgundy silk, pulling me an inch
closer until my hip was resting flush against his thigh. It wasn't hesitant. It
wasn't clumsy. It was the possessive grip of a man who took whatever he wanted
and never asked for permission.

I looked up at him in shock.

He looked down at me, his eyes alight with dark humor.

“Don’t get carried away,” I muttered under my breath.

“You approached me,” he noted calmly.

“I was having an emergency.”

“You grabbed my face with both hands.”

“I was establishing visual dominance.”

“You ordered me to look obsessed.”

“And you're overachieving,” I whispered back.

His fingers tightened slightly against my waist. “I don't do anything halfway,
little bird.”

Before I could process the nickname, Julian’s voice sliced through the air like
a dull butter knife.

“Natalie?”

There it was.

That specific tone. A noxious blend of mild surprise, patronizing pity, and
performative concern.

I turned my head smoothly, plastering a dazzling, radiant smile across my face
that felt like it might crack my foundation.

“Julian,” I purred. “What a lovely surprise.”

Julian was standing there beside Camille, holding two glasses of vintage Dom
Pérignon. His eyes flicked immediately to the massive hand clamped around my
waist, then up to the dark, towering figure standing behind me.

Julian’s smirk wavered. A flash of profound confusion crossed his features.

“I didn't expect to see you socializing,” Julian said smoothly, recovering his
footing. “I thought you'd be running around in the back coordinating the dessert
carts.”

“The dessert carts are fully capable of rolling themselves, Julian,” I said
sweetly. “And life is full of delightful surprises.”

The stranger’s thumb brushed lazily against the silk at my hip.

Julian cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably under the stranger’s
unblinking, heavy gaze.

“Aren't you going to introduce us, Natalie?” Julian asked, glancing at the man.

My smile locked in place.

Right. Introductions.

A crucial, fundamental component of human society.

I looked up at my emergency boyfriend.

I knew absolutely nothing about him. I didn't know his surname. I didn't know
his profession. I didn't know if the three armed giants standing behind him were
personal security, private hitmen, or an aggressive corporate consulting firm.

Great job, Parker. You picked a phantom.

Julian waited, his eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion. “Natalie?”

The stranger didn't let me drown.

He extended a broad, steady right hand toward Julian, his voice dropping into
that deep, authoritative baritone that commanded total silence in any room.

“Enzo.”

Julian shook his hand, wincing slightly at the crushing grip. “Julian Cross.
Cross Logistics.”

“I know,” Enzo said flatly.

Julian blinked. “You know me?”

“I know your father’s supply chain is failing,” Enzo replied with effortless
brutality. “And your quarterly earnings report drops by fourteen percent on
Monday.”

Julian’s face drained of every ounce of color. Camille gasped softly beside him.

Before Julian could sputter a response, the heavy mahogany double doors of the
ballroom swung open, and the lead organizer of the charity board rushed into the
room with a microphone in hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the organizer announced breathlessly into the sound
system. “May I have your attention, please! We are honored to welcome the chief
benefactor of tonight’s gala, the majority shareholder of the North American
Maritime Exchange, and the CEO of Romano Enterprises… Mr. Enzo Romano!”

The entire ballroom burst into thunderous, reverent applause.

Hundreds of heads turned simultaneously toward our corner of the room.

Julian dropped his champagne glass. It shattered against the parquet floor with
a sharp crystal ring.

Beside me, the man holding my waist didn't flinch.