The Billionaire's Masked Obsession

CORINNE

He cocked his head at me when I didn’t answer. Those dark, piercing eyes tracking my every movement like he could see into the corners of my mind. The quiet attention made my skin feel too tight.

I let out an awkward laugh, the sound thin even to my own ears. “Of course not, Mr. Delacroix,” I said quickly, before the silence swallowed me whole. “This is my first time meeting you and there’s no way a mere teacher like me would ever be found in the same… circle as yours.”

The words landed and died.

The corners of his mouth stayed flat and I could feel the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on me.

My hands twisted together in my lap beneath the table, fingers tightening until my knuckles ached.

There’s no way he knows who I am, I told myself, trying to convince my nerves as much as my brain. It’s not possible.

The mask had been flawless. Everything about that night had been designed to disappear by morning. And besides, the lights in the club had been low, he couldn’t have —he didn’t see my face properly. There was no way he could look at me now, seated across from him in a quiet office and see the same woman. No way he could connect a masked stripper to the person currently sitting here, telling him how to raise his children.

He would have called me out if he had known. Men like him didn’t sit on information like that quietly. They used it. People with that kind of money didn’t miss opportunities to hold power over others.

That’s how they worked.

They collected leverage like currency, stored it away, pulled it out when needed. And if he had even the slightest suspicion —if he had recognized me in any way— this meeting would have gone very differently.

And Lucian Delacroix did not strike me as a man who ever let his prey sit comfortably across from him.

I forced my shoulders to relax, even as my pulse refused to slow and tried keeping my expression neutral.

‘He doesn’t know.’ I kept repeating that in my head like an unholy mantra.

“A mere teacher,” he repeated slowly, like the words amused him in a way he would never admit out loud.

I felt heat creep up my neck and quickly tried to change the topic. “About Elias—”

“Has he caused any damage?” he cut in smoothly. “Broken anything? Hurt another student? Any trouble I should be aware of?”

I frowned. “No. That isn’t what this is about.”

“Then what is?” His tone was almost bored, but his eyes stayed hard.

I leaned forward despite myself. “Like I said, I can’t do my job properly if I’m kept in the dark. Elias isn’t a problem child but he needs structure. Understanding. I can’t provide that without knowing—”

“Without knowing his medical history?” he cut in. “You think that entitles you to it?”

“I think it allows me to support him better.”

A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.

“And what exactly do you plan to do with that information?” he asked. “File it away? Share it during lunch breaks? Or sell it to the highest media bidder when the opportunity presents itself? I assure you, that would be an expensive mistake.”

I could feel my anger growing with every word he was spewing.

“There’s a reason why the media has never seen my children’s faces. There’s also a reason I don’t parade them around by picking them up and dropping them off like a sideshow.”

He brushed off an imaginary dust from his coat.

“I’ve already done enough damage by showing up here this morning,” he added. “So what makes you think I would make it worse by handing over confidential documents to you?”

He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, voice dropping dangerously low and eyes coldly set on me.

“My job is to take care of my kids. Yours is to teach them,” he said. “Don’t cross your boundaries, Ms Sterling.”

I waited a beat to be sure he was done so I could avoid the unnecessary interruptions.

“With all due respect, Mr. Delacroix,” I said calmly, “what part of this conversation gave you the impression that I care about the media?”

I didn’t wait for a response.

“I don’t care about your company,” I continued, the words spilling now. “I don’t care about your money, your affairs, the mythology you’ve built around your privacy, or whatever carefully curated nonsense you keep behind closed doors. I promise you, my life functions perfectly well without any of it.”

His expression didn’t change as he watched me.

“What I do care about,” I said, leaning back in my chair, forcing myself to breathe, “is being able to help Elias. Your son. And I’ll emphasize that again if I need to.”

“If there’s a crisis, if something overwhelms him, if he shuts down or panics, I need to know how to respond. I asked because I’m the one standing in front of him during the school hours. Not you. Not George. Me. That’s not curiosity. That’s responsibility.”

“And let’s be very clear,” I added, voice even. “If I were interested in selling stories, a child’s medical history wouldn’t even make the list. There are uglier, more profitable truths attached to men like you. I’ve never needed them.”

I drew in a slow breath.

This was the part where he threatens my job and remind me exactly how disposable I am. I waited for it, met his gaze without blinking, refused to give him the satisfaction of looking small.

It wasn’t as if the job was precious. The pay was modest. The hours long. No prestige, no applause. Nothing about it was worth fighting for on paper.

And yet, it gave me cover.

No one ever looked twice at a teacher. No one would ever imagined that I traded glass towers for classrooms and crayon dust. Three years ago, I wouldn’t have believed it myself.

Still, here I was.

And as much as I hated admitting it, there was something disarming about it. About small hands reaching for yours without suspicion. About minds that hadn’t yet learned how cruel adults could be. Children didn’t care who you used to be. They cared if you showed up. If you listened. If you stayed.

Lucian Delacroix watched me carefully. His expression wasn’t angry nor impressed.

It was calculative.

His fingers tapped a rhythm on the table that was quickly getting me more annoyed. The silence stretched far longer than I would have liked and just when I was about to voice out another mistake, he spoke.

“Are you allowed to speak to a parent like that Ms Sterling?”

I shrugged. “I doubt it’s in the teacher’s manual,” I said. “I’m comfortable being honest when a child is involved, if that’s a problem, you’re welcome to escalate it. I don’t see the value in pretending this conversation is something it isn’t.”

I waited for the fallout.

It didn’t come.

“I have an offer for you,” he said instead.

I stiffened.

An offer.

From a man like him.

Every instinct I had recoiled. A billionaire’s offer was never just an offer. It was a leash dressed up as generosity. I opened my mouth, already prepared to refuse.

“Come work for me,” he continued, unhurried. “At my estate.”

There’s no way I heard that right.

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“As a tutor.”

“A tut—what?”

Fuck my pathetic life.