A BILLIONAIRE'S OBSESSION: THE ENEMY I CRAVE

"Some touches burn into your memory, not because they were tender, but because they were the last thing you wanted… and the only thing you couldn’t resist."

Finn’s Pov -One Year Ago

The champagne in my glass tasted like liquid gold and poor decisions, and this is exactly what I wanted. The club pulsed around me, all shadows and light, strings of gold and crimson masks flickering in the dark. Somewhere between the live saxophone in the corner and the slow thrum of bass, the night felt untouchable like sin wrapped in silk. I was drunk enough to feel invincible, dizzy enough to stop caring about tomorrow. The masquerade crowd swirled on the dance floor, jeweled masks glinting under chandeliers, everyone pretending to be someone else. It was perfect here; anonymity was not just possible; it was the game.

That is when I saw him at the corner VIP table, shadowed and untouched, like the party had not dared to approach him. He sat alone, mask in hand, a half-finished glass of whiskey before him. Broad shoulders under a tailored black suit. Dark hair curling slightly at the ends and a hint of stubble along his jaw that looked maddeningly touchable.

And those eyes, f*ck me, feen from across the room, I could see the glint in them. Sharp, appraising, and dangerous in a way that made my pulse trip over itself. I should have ignored him, but instead, I grinned like a fool and started walking towards my target for the night. By the time I reached his table, my head was buzzing not from the alcohol but from the sheer certainty that I wanted to know what it felt like to be the center of those eyes.

"Drinking alone at a party like this?" I leaned a hand on the back of the leather booth. "Seems like a waste."

His gaze slid up to me, slow, deliberate, and it was like being undressed in public. "Some company’s worth waiting for," he said, voice deep enough to curl heat low in my stomach.

I laughed, unable to help myself. "That's a line you use often?"

"Only when it’s true." He smirked.

I did not even ask if I could sit down, and I proceeded to slide into the booth beside him, close enough for my thigh to brush his. He did not move away, and his lips curved not a smile, but something that made my heart misbehave.

"Hi," I said, holding out a hand.

He hesitated, then took it. His grip was warm, sure. "Hi," he murmured.

I never heard his response as I was too busy noticing how his thumb brushed mine before letting go, and the buzz in my body was alive as my c*ck hardened and my body’s heat rose.

"Hi," I repeated, tasting it like a secret. "You don’t seem like the masquerade type."

"I’m not." His gaze swept over me, lingering in a way that made my breath catch. "But tonight, I’m making exceptions."

The heat in my cheeks was not from the alcohol anymore, and then the conversation started. We talked, though I could not remember half the words later. Something about the city and the whiskey. About how the masks made it easier to forget who we were, and every time he leaned in, every time his arm brushed mine, the air between us got heavier, richer. At some point, I realized I was staring at his mouth and making calculations as to how much I wanted to taste his lips, and from the way his eyes darkened, he knew it.

"Your trouble," he said quietly.

"Then you should probably send me away." I leaned closer.

Instead, his hand came to rest on my knee, and my pulse roared in my ears. The music faded into nothing. The people, the lights, the rest of the d*mn world, they all vanished. There was only him, and me, and the magnetic pull that made it impossible to move away.

I leaned in first, and his lips met mine halfway, and f*ck, it was not gentle. It was heat and hunger, his hand sliding higher on my thigh, my fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss deepened until I was half in his lap, his other arm wrapped firmly around my waist. My back pressed to the leather, his mouth devouring mine like he had been starving for it. A low sound escaped from my mouth, and the way his hand tightened on me said he liked it.

I broke away just enough to breathe, my forehead against his. "I hate that we are in a public place."

"Not for long," he murmured, and kissed me again, and it was dizzying, the way he kissed. Like he wanted to own the moment, to burn it into both of us. My hands slid down over his chest, feeling the heat through his shirt, the steady thud of his heartbeat under my palm. I did not want it to stop, and then someone moved near us, and the interruption was sudden, jarring the shift in the air before I even heard the voice.

"Mr. Edward Fraser”

I froze.

He stilled beneath me, his head turning toward the man who had appeared at the edge of the booth. A bodyguard, broad and suited, his expression carefully neutral.

"Sir, there’s an urgent matter you need to—"

Edward Fraser? The name slammed into me like a punch. The man whose voice had just made me melt was the same man whose name had been spat across every nightmare since my parents died. The man tied to the fire was the man I had sworn to hate.

I jerked back like he had burned me, my chest heaving.

He looked at me, eyes narrowing slightly, as if he could see the shift in me. "What is it?"

"Don’t." My voice cracked, and I slid out of the booth, shoving past the bodyguard before he could even blink. My mask hung crooked over my face, my hands shaking so hard I could barely fix it. The air outside was colder than it should have been for a summer night. I made it to my car and slammed the door shut, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The champagne haze had evaporated, replaced by a sharp, nauseating ache in my chest. My hands gripped the wheel until my knuckles went white.

What the f*ck? I had kissed Edward Fraser, moaned into his f*ck*ng arms, and wanted him to take me.

And for a few minutes, I had let myself forget who I was, and then tears came hot and fast, blurring the neon lights as I pulled away from the curb. I drove like a madman through the streets, cursing his name, cursing myself, and hating, truly hating how badly I still wanted to turn around and go back inside.

Edward Fraser, the f*ck*ng b*st*rd who killed my family and mostly my worst enemy!

PRESENT DAY

The city stretched beneath me, glass and steel catching the winter sun, sharp enough to cut. London in late afternoon was a machine in motion, cold, precise, relentless. I liked it that way. From my office on the thirty-second floor, I could see the whole game board. Every player down there, every banker, politician, rival lawyer, was just another piece to be moved or removed.

“Your three o’clock is waiting, sir,” Clarissa said from the doorway, her voice as clipped as my own.

“Push them to tomorrow.” I did not look up from the contract in front of me, the ink still drying from a signature that had just cost someone two million pounds and a month of their life.

There was a pause. “They’ve flown in from New York.”

“They can fly back,” I said, sliding the papers into a neat stack. “And tell them to read Clause Seventeen again, they’ve missed something.”

“Yes, sir.” The click of her heels faded down the hall.

I exhal