Page 119 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
It’s just entered a new, more dangerous phase.
And I need to start planning my counter-offensive.
Now.
36
Lucy
Operation: Project Utter Confidence(aka Hammond & Co.’s upcoming 50th Anniversary Gala) has officially entered the ‘Oh God, Is This Actually Happening?’ phase of planning.
Which means I’m in full panic mode.
The goal is simple: throw a glittering party so blindingly successful that our clients, investors, and the entire New York business elite forget the words ‘financial distress,’ ‘scaffolding collapse,’ and ‘CEO had a massive coronary.’ Instead, they’ll think ‘stable,’ ‘resilient,’ and ‘wow, that interim CEO cleans up nice and doesn’t seemtotallyclueless.’
Fingers crossed.
I’m huddled with Carol, our receptionist slash event manager, and Liam O’Connell, our head architect whose family has basically built half of Hammond’s portfolio. We’re finalizing the seating charts in the main conference room.
Liam is meticulously arranging tiny name cards on a scaled diagram of the ballroom like a generalplanning a crucial battle. Meanwhile Carol is frowning at the catering estimates.
Myself, I’m mostly trying not to hyperventilate about the budget for floral arrangements versus the looming specter of the SPE cleanup costs.
Ah, the glamorous life of a temp CEO: juggling potential bankruptcy with the optimal placement of canapés and flowers.
“Okay, so the delegation from Sumitomo Realty needs to be near the exits, they always leave early,” Carol mutters, tapping a name card. “And Mrs. Vanderbilt complained last time the music was too loud near her table.”
“We need the architectural renderings displayed prominently near the entrance,” Liam suggests, adjusting a tiny cardboard cutout representing a display easel. “Remind people of our legacy. Our foundations.”
Foundations, I think grimly, picturing Dad’s secret network of shady financial entities.Yeah, let’s maybe not draw too much attention to those particular foundations.
“Everything looks great, guys,” I say, forcing a bright smile. “Ambiance of quiet luxury, food that screams ‘we are definitely not broke,’ and enough mood lighting to make everyone look ten years younger. Perfect.”
Carol hands me the updated RSVP list. “Almost everyone important has confirmed, dear. However, there is…” She hesitates.
I scan the list. Senators. Banking bigwigs. Real estate rivals. Ava and Gideon, of course. They’ll be front and center. And Christopher Blackwell…confirmed.
My heart does a little skip.
Good.
His presence sends the right message.
But why was Carol hesitating?
My eyes snag on another name near the bottom. Typed out in crisp, impersonal font.
Mr. Mark Blackwell.
Confirmed.
Excuse me??
What??
MarkBlackwell?
Christopher’s estranged, vindictive, possibly-trying-to-destroy-us father?
