Page 3 of Big Billionaire

I shouldn’t notice these things. But I do.

And as I sit here, in the dark, watching the girl I can’t have…all I can think about is how badly I want her anyway.

She moves across the stage like the music was written for her alone. Every extension is clean. Every turn lands sharp and precise. Her lines are textbook perfect, not stiff or mechanical, but alive.

I’ve seen hundreds of dancers in my life. Blackwell Academy doesn’t hand out scholarships to just anyone—they’re rare, and it’s even rarer for a student to hold on to it. We demand perfection, consistency, and the ability to perform under pressure without breaking. Lena has all of that.

Or she did.

Until recently.

Now there are whispers that follow her everywhere. I’ve heard them, and I know the root of it all. My jaw clenches as my gaze drifts away from Lena to the smirking bastard in the front row. My son.

Logan has always been a brat. Entitled. More interested in coasting on the family name than building anything of his own. He wants the world handed to him, and when it isn’t, he burns it down out of spite.

And this time, the thing he’s trying to burn is her.

My Lena. My firefly.

I know she didn’t do what they’re accusing her of. I can see it in her. Hell, I’ve been watching her long enough to know the kind of discipline and drive it takes to get where she is. She’s earned her place here, fought for it.

But my son’s poison spreads fast. And right now, all I can do is sit here in the dark and watch her fight through it alone.

She turns into an arabesque, hips square, back leg high, toes pointed like a blade—and I feel it like a punch to the chest. The strength in her legs, the curve of her spine, the way her chest lifts as she holds the position…

Christ.

She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me.

She lowers into a penché, folding forward until her fingertips almost brush the stage, that perfect ass high, muscles taut. My hands ache with the need to grip her hips, to hold her still while I take what’s already mine.

Dark thoughts, wrong thoughts, but they come easy when it’s her.

I’ve had enough. Enough watching from the shadows, enough pretending this is about respect or restraint.

She doesn’t belong to Logan. Not anymore.

She belongs to me now.

The thought is barely formed before it’s broken by a sharp, ugly voice from somewhere in the crowd.

“Nice act, sweetheart! Who’d you fuck for the part?”

Lena stumbles at a pivotal turn, her ankle wobbling and arms flailing before she drops to one knee.

My eyes snap toward the source of the voice, searching the rows, memorizing the shadows until I know exactly where it came from. My hands curl into fists. I want a name. A face. I want them to regret opening their mouth for the rest of their life.

Later.

First, her. Always her.

I’m on my feet before I’ve even thought about it.

The hall goes silent, the air stretching tight with tension. I hear whispers, feel every eye follow me as I stride down the aisle. I don’t care.

I stop right in front of her. She’s still kneeling, eyes wide, chest rising fast, the stage lights making her look delicate, like something too fragile for this world.

I hold out my hand. “Get up, firefly,” I say, keeping my voice low but authoritative.