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

The thunderous applause echoing across the Grand Plaza Ballroom felt like a
sonic boom detonating inside my skull.

Enzo Romano.

Not an executive. Not a wealthy investor.

The Enzo Romano.

The man whose conglomerate owned forty percent of the deep-water shipping ports
on the Eastern Seaboard. The man whose private equity firm had swallowed three
legacy banks before he turned thirty-four. The man whose public profile was so
notoriously ruthless that Wall Street analysts referred to his acquisition
strategies as "corporate executions."

And less than ninety seconds ago, I had held his multi-billion-dollar cheekbones
between my palms and told him to fix his facial expressions.

"Boss," one of his bodyguards—the one who had finally stopped choking—stepped
forward, handing Enzo a slim, gold-embossed tablet. "The board of directors is
waiting at the VIP dais."

Enzo didn't look at the tablet. His heavy amber gaze never left my face.

"Julian," Enzo said smoothly, not even glancing at the paralyzed man standing
amidst the broken glass of his champagne flute. "Have someone clean that up
before my companion steps on it."

Julian’s mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish. "Mr. Romano... I—I had no
idea you and Natalie were..."

"You don't need to have ideas about my personal life, Cross," Enzo cut in, his
voice dropping into that razor-sharp register that made powerful men shrink.
"You need to focus on preventing your logistics firm from defaulting on its bond
obligations next month. Good evening."

Without waiting for a reply, Enzo turned, keeping his hand anchored securely
against my lower back, and guided me away from the wreckage of Julian's ego.

I walked beside him on autopilot, my heels clicking mechanically against the
polished marble floor. Every pair of eyes in the high-society crowd was locked
onto us. Socialites in diamond chokers whispered behind their crystal flutes;
city council members nodded with deferential reverence; flashbulbs from
authorized media photographers flared in blinding white bursts.

"Smile, little bird," Enzo murmured near my temple, his warm breath stirring the
stray tendrils of my dark hair. "The society columnists are taking notes."

"If you don't release my waist in the next three seconds, Mr. Romano," I hissed
under my breath through a radiant, camera-ready smile, "I am going to
accidentally drive my four-inch stiletto directly through the top of your custom
Italian leather shoe."

Enzo let out a low, genuine laugh that rumbled against my ribs.

"Violent," he observed calmly. "I like it. But if I let you go right now, Julian
Cross will spend the rest of the evening assuming you hired an escort to save
your pride."

My teeth gritted so hard my jaw ached. Damn him for being right.

He led me toward the private VIP lounge behind the orchestra stage. His three
security guards immediately took positions outside the heavy double doors,
locking out the noise, the photographers, and the swarming crowd.

The room was quiet, furnished in dark emerald velvet, polished brass, and
mahogany.

The moment the doors sealed, Enzo released his grip on my waist.

The sudden absence of his heat left a strange, tingling chill against my side. I
immediately stepped three paces back, putting the heavy mahogany coffee table
between us, crossing my arms over my chest defensively.

"I apologize," I said crisply, switching instantly into my professional
event-director persona. "I was unaware of your identity. Had I known who you
were, I would never have initiated physical contact."

Enzo removed his tailored suit jacket, tossing it casually over the back of a
leather armchair, and began unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt.

"You didn't answer my question out there, Natalie," he said, walking over to the
bar cart and pouring two fingers of single-malt scotch into a crystal tumbler.

"Which question?"

"How a woman with an elite event planning firm ended up dating an incompetent
hedge-fund parasite like Julian Cross."

I stiffened. "My past relationship is none of your business."

Enzo took a slow sip of his scotch, his amber eyes pinning me in place. "It
became my business the moment you placed your hands on my face and dragged my
name into your personal vendetta."

"I asked for thirty seconds!" I retorted, feeling my cheeks flush with hot
embarrassment. "You could have pushed me away! You could have let your security
tackle me to the floor!"

"I could have," Enzo agreed mildly, setting his glass down with a soft click.
"But then I wouldn't have discovered the solution to my primary corporate
obstacle."

I narrowed my eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Enzo reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek, black leather-bound
portfolio. He tossed it onto the table between us.

"Open it," he instructed.

I hesitated, then reached down and flipped the leather cover.

Inside was a draft of a formal joint venture contract between Romano Enterprises
and the Saint-Claire Maritime Consortium—a legacy European shipping empire
controlled by an ultra-conservative board of trustees.

"The Saint-Claire family values traditional stability," Enzo explained, leaning
back against the bar, watching me with calculating intensity. "Their matriarch,
Lady Eleanor Saint-Claire, refuses to award the five-billion-dollar deep-water
port contract to an 'unpredictable bachelor' whose personal life is subject to
tabloid speculation. She demands a partner with roots. Stability. A long-term
partner."

I stared at the paperwork, then looked up at him in utter disbelief.

"You have got to be kidding me."

"I never joke about five billion dollars, Natalie."

"You want to fake a relationship with me to satisfy some eighty-year-old French
aristocrat?"

"Not just a relationship," Enzo corrected coldly. "An engagement."

The room seemed to spin.

"I am an event planner, Mr. Romano," I said, my voice rising. "I organize galas.
I do not play pretend fiancée for tyrannical billionaires!"

Enzo walked slowly around the table, stopping just twelve inches in front of me.
The sheer size of him, combined with the magnetic pull of his presence, made it
difficult to draw a full breath.

"You run Parker Event Design," Enzo stated, his voice dropping into a low,
hypnotic cadence. "You have three hundred thousand dollars in commercial
equipment debt from your previous business partner who embezzled the operating
accounts six months ago. Julian Cross promised to bail you out using his
family’s logistics firm, which was why you tolerated his disrespect for half a
year."

My breath caught in my throat. The secret financial hemorrhage that had kept me
awake every night at 3:00 AM—the burden I hadn't even told my own mother—lay
exposed before this stranger.

"How do you know that?" I whispered.

"My team ran your background check the moment you grabbed my jaw," Enzo said
smoothly. "Here is my proposition, Natalie: You play my devoted, untouchable
fiancée for three months until the Saint-Claire contract is signed. In return, I
will wipe your firm's three-hundred-thousand-dollar debt by noon tomorrow, fund
a two-million-dollar expansion grant for your business, and give you exclusive
event contracts for every Romano property in North America."

I stared at him, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs.

"And what happens if I refuse?" I demanded.