The Billionaire’s Secret 🥀 | Part 22: Sebastian Blackwell In The News (Patreon)

All characters depicted in this story are fictional and 18 years of age or older. Everything portrayed is safe, sane, and consensual.

Monday morning hit like any other, but the office felt thicker somehow, the air humming with glances that stuck a little too long. I pushed through the revolving doors, badge beeping me in, and crossed the lobby under the weight of eyes from accounting. A cluster by the elevators fell quiet as I passed, one woman mid sentence about weekend plans, her voice dropping to a murmur when she saw me. No one approached. No "Hey, Evan, that photo thing..." Just the subtle shift, heads turning back to screens or coffee cups, conversations picking up in low tones as I rounded the corner. I kept my head down, shoulders squared, and made it to my desk without a word.

The chair creaked familiar under me, monitor flickering to life with unread emails. I opened the file for the redo first, the scaled back version that had felt so flat when I saved it Friday night. Neutral lines. Budget materials. I attached it to Mr. Patel's inbox, hit send, and watched the progress bar crawl. Done. A small win, maybe. The designs were competent. Safe. But as I closed the window, my mind drifted to the personal folder, the library wall with its gold threaded runner, bold and breathing in a way this never could.

Patel's reply pinged an hour later. “Good work on the revisions, Hartley. Clean lines. Let's schedule a review next week”. Neutral. Professional. I exhaled slowly, leaning back in the chair. Small victory amid the flatness.

Afternoon dragged the usual way, keyboards clacking, phones murmuring in the background. I lost myself in a client revision, tweaking elevations on a conference room mockup, until footsteps paused at my cube. Patel stood there, sleeves pushed up, tie loose from a morning meeting. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, firm but brief.

"Mr. Hartley. I hope you know how the firm values your creativity. Please don't be disappointed. Your designs were great, but remember the budget."

He nodded once, like that settled it, and moved on down the row, voice carrying to the next desk about deadlines. I stared at my screen, his words hanging. Values creativity. But boxed in. Always the budget.

The office hum settled back to normal after that, printers whirring, someone laughing too loud in the break room. Jacob caught my eye from across the partition during our mid afternoon coffee run, his sidelong glance lingering as we waited for the machine to drip. He bumped my arm light with his elbow.

"You okay?"

I nodded along, stirring sugar into my cup. "Yeah. Just the usual grind."

He searched my face for a second, then let it drop with a half smile. "If you say so. Lunch tomorrow?"

"Sure."

We parted ways at the cubes, him heading to a call, me back to the mockup. But his glance stuck, warm and steady, cutting through the quiet stares from earlier.

Evening came with the usual rush, bag slung over my shoulder, elevator dinging down to the street. Home felt like a safe space, the door clicking shut behind me, keys tossed on the counter. I kicked off my shoes, sank onto the couch, and pulled out my phone out of habit. X loaded slowly, but when it did, the feed hit like a wave.

New article at the top. “Sebastian Blackwell Comforts Employee in Need.” I tapped through, the headline pulling me in despite myself. Photos from the weekend, him at some board meeting, suited and composed, shaking hands with donors. The subhead spun it soft. “Billionaire's Kind Gesture Amid Crisis.” The kiss was reframed. Misunderstood by a long lens.

“Jacket lent after a spill.”Comments shifted tone overnight. “Class act. Not what it looked like. Good guy.”

More articles stacked below. “Blackwell Industries Staff Member Opens Up on Personal Struggle.” A quote from the decoy, vague and grateful. Heartwarming Moment: CEO Offers Support in Tough Times. No more mystery man digs. No twink whispers. Just clean, favorable lines, the story folding in on itself.

I screenshotted the main piece, thumb hovering over send. Then hit it anyway.

His reply came quick.” You're welcome ;)”

The winky face landed light, playful even. But my stomach twisted slowly. Efficient. Gone. Like flipping a switch. I set the phone down, screen still glowing, and stared at the ceiling. Relief should have settled. Instead curiosity gnawed quiet at the edges. How fast. How clean. Like the world had blinked and moved on.And that is what really happened. The world had moved on.

I checked my phone the next morning over coffee, steam curling up from the mug as I scrolled through the feed. Tuesday's top story was already shifting. “Mr. Blackwell Seen Attending Charity Gala Raises Millions for Youth Arts.” Photos loaded slow, Sebastian in a sharp black tux, smiling with a cluster of donors under crystal chandeliers. No arm candy. No whispers. Just headlines about quiet generosity, the kind that painted him as the city's benevolent shadow. Comments piled positive. “Always giving back. Classy move.”

Work that day buried me in revisions, but I checked again at lunch, fork paused midway to my mouth. The gala piece had legs, spawning follow ups about his foundation's impact. No trace of the kiss. No mystery man. Just Sebastian, suited and untouchable.

Wednesday evening, after a team huddle that dragged into overtime, I sank into the couch and pulled up X. “Billionaire Spotted at Old Age Home”“Sebastian Blackwell Delivers Smiles and Supplies”.

Clips played automatic, him crouched beside an elderly woman, handing out care packages, her face lighting up as he listened to her story. Down to earth headlines scrolled underneath. The man who has it all and still shows up. The scandal drowned deeper, old news buried under fresh warmth. I closed the app, but the images stuck, his broad shoulders bent low, easy laugh cutting through the feed.

Thursday blurred the same way. Deadlines stacked, my desk a mess of printouts and half eaten energy bars. I snuck checks between tasks, the screen lighting my face in the dim cube. Two stories hit back to back that morning. “Blackwell Announces Eco Initiative - Sustainable Properties Lead the Way”. A press release, glossy renders of green buildings, stock tickers ticking up in the corner of the article. Then, Art Auction Sighting Blackwell Bids Big on Emerging Talent. Photos of him in the front row, paddle raised, Eleanor at his side with that same chignon, her hand light on his arm. Gallery tie in, whispers about mother son power duo in the art world.

By Thursday night, sprawled on the bed with takeout cooling beside me, the feed ran clean. No kiss mentions. No sexuality rumors. Flatlined. Old news guy is a saint, one comment read, buried under likes. I scrolled numb, thumb aching from the drag. The world had moved on. Office too. No more sidelong stares when I grabbed coffee Friday morning. People nodded and smiled now, easy hellos in the hall, like the blazer whispers had never happened. Relief laced through me, thin and welcome. But the erasure stung quiet, a small hollow where the chaos had been. Me, the twink in the suit. Forgotten. Poetic, almost.

Friday afternoon dragged slow, sunlight slanting gold across my monitor as I wrapped a mockup. Mid scroll during a lull, the new post hit. Sebastian's gym mirror selfie. Shirtless, sweat gleaming on his chest, weights gripped mid lift, muscles corded tight. But in the background, blurred just enough, a hot woman. Ponytail high, leggings hugging long legs, yoga mat unrolled with a water bottle beside it. Captions exploded below.

Mr. Blackwell Dating Someone? Mystery Woman in Gym Snap. Who Is She?Eligible Bachelor Off Market?

My gut dropped, jealousy flickering hot and sharp. Comments piled. Finally settling down? I stared at the screen, thumb frozen, the image burning in. Then I texted him, quick and blunt.

“The photo... who is she?”

His reply came fast. “It's my trainer lol. Tyler told me to post that story…”

Casual. Deflected. But the unease spiked, scripted normalcy settling cold in my chest. Tyler told him. Like a play, lines fed before curtain.

Home by six thirty, the apartment door clicking shut behind me, I sank into the couch, phone heavy in my hand. And just like that the world had forgotten about the twink. Me, the one caught making out with the city's most eligible bachelor. Office silence felt like a win now, no stares in the lobby, just nods and small talk by the printer. But curiosity gnawed deeper. How did news bury so deep in days? His PR team churning favorable frames, trainer post as the final pivot? It felt controlled, not chaotic. Warmth of Sebastian's world pulling me in, but I was just gone from it, a shadow erased clean.

The phone buzzed against my thigh. Sebastian.

“Now that we are clear, let's properly celebrate this…”

I typed back without thinking. “Sure.”

His next message landed quick. “Where would you like to be fucked, Mr. Hartley? My private study or the new Penthouse?”

Heat flushed through me, the words pulling tight low in my gut. The study echoed in my head, bookshelf wood cool at my back, his mouth on my throat. But brunch lingered too. “You decide.”, I messaged.“Will pick you up at 8” , Sebastian replied.

The screen dimmed, his words hanging there. Finally over. But curiosity twisted quiet beside the pull. How things changed so fast, the buried frames leaving shadows I could not quite shake. I set the phone down, stood, and crossed to the mirror. Button down rumpled from the day. I smoothed it flat, wondering what came next in a world that blinked and forgot.

────────────────The Billionaire’s Secret 🥀 | Part 23: Fits Like a SecretUpcoming Episodes

Part 23 — 28th MarchFits Like a SecretPart 24 — 2nd AprilBest Night of My Life

Part 25 — 6th AprilFinale — Title Withheld