Page 102 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Over the ruthless tactics his father champions. Over the easy, brutal win.
The relief is so immense, so unexpected, it feels like a physical blow. Tears well up again, but this time they aren’t tears of fear or despair. They’re tears of overwhelming gratitude. Of finally, truly, understanding the man standing in front of me.
He’s not the Executioner. Not anymore. Maybe he never really was, not underneath it all.
I pull him into a fierce hug and I weep on his shoulder.
The weight on my chest eases, replaced by a burgeoning warmth, a sense of trust so profound it settles deep in my bones.
We’re still facing a potential catastrophe with these SPEs. The problem hasn’t vanished. And my dad’s recovery will also be an uphill battle, no denying that. But now… now I’m not facing either alone.
I’m facing it with him. The man who knew the worst and chose loyalty anyway.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words thick with emotion. It feels inadequate, but it’s all I have.
When I pull away, he reaches out, his thumb gently brushing away a tear tracking down my cheek. His touch is surprisingly gentle. Grounding.
“Your father’s health is paramount, Lucy,” he murmurs. “This SPE thing, while it’s important, it’s something in the background. Something we’ll figure out, eventually.” He echos the words I just spoke to my father, but infusing them with a quiet confidence I desperately need to hear. “Together.”
Together.
I hug him again.
31
Christopher
Hospitals.
I fucking hate hospitals.
The smell of disinfectant.
The relentless, cheerful beeping of machines.
The forced calm of the staff navigating other people’s worst fucking days.
It’s an environment predicated on loss of control, something fundamentally alien to my nature.
Yet here I sit. In a private waiting room at Mount Sinai that my name and a few quiet calls secured. Not for me. For Lucy.
For her father, Richard Hammond, the man whose company I was supposed to dismantle, currently lying upstairs recovering from a fucking heart attack.
Life has a sick sense of humor.
Across the small table, Lucy looks pale but composed. The initial shock has worn off, replaced by a grim determination I recognize. She’s processing the dual blows. Her father’s brush with mortality. And his confession about the Special Purpose Entities. Thepotentially company-killing, jail-time-inducing financial skeletons rattling in the Hammond closet.
“Okay,” she says, pushing a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Her finger trembles slightly. “SPEs. He confirmed it. Morgan wasn’t bluffing.”
“I know,” I reply, keeping my voice even. We went over this already.
“So what now?” she asks, looking at the tablet where I’ve pulled up some preliminary notes. “Morgan knows. Your father knows. How long before they use it? Or leak it?”
“They won’t leak it yet,” I counter, shifting into strategic mode. It’s familiar territory. Easier than navigating the emotional minefield of her tear-streaked face earlier. “My father wants control, not obliteration, at least not yet. He brought it to me first, expecting me to use it as leverage for a complete takeover on brutal terms. My refusal complicates his plan. Morgan wants leverage too, likely for a forced liquidation where he profits personally. A public scandal hurts their ability to extract maximum value quietly. But once they’ve milked Hammond & Co for all they can, it’s end will be swift and brutal.”
I tap the screen. “Our priority is twofold. First, ensure Richard gets the absolute best care. I’ve already spoken to Dr. Alistair Finch, head of cardiology. He’s overseeing the case personally.” Using my resources forthis. For the Hammonds. The irony isn’t lost on me. “Second, we need to neutralize the SPE threat before Morgan or my father can leverage it effectively. That means damage control. Now.”
“How?” Lucy looks overwhelmed. “Dad said the documentation is damning.”
