Page 14 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Let her talk. Let her lay out her vision. See if there’s any substance behind the desperation and the pretty face.
And as she starts outlining potential synergies, restructuring ideas, and ways to leverage the Hammond brand with Blackwell tech my mind spins. It’s partly bullshit of course. Overly optimistic projections fueled by hope rather than hard data. But buried within it… there are kernels of genuine insight. Creative angles I hadn’t considered. A perspective grounded in history and personal connection that my analysts could never replicate.
She understands the soul of the company. Even if its body is failing.
My father would laugh me out of the room. A partnership? Withher?Unthinkable. Weak.
But the idea takes root. A hostile takeover is clean brutal efficient. A partnership… is messy. Complicated. Requires trust. Something I’m notoriously short on. Yet… the potential upside…
Maybe. Just maybe.
I need more time. More information. Not just financial data. Information about her. If she’s going to be my partner, I need to know everything there is to know about her and what makes her tick.
“This requires further discussion, Ms. Hammond. A more… informal setting perhaps. Are you available for dinner tonight?” The words are out before I can fully process the impulse, or the repercussions.
Her eyes widen slightly. Surprise flickers across her face, quickly replaced by suspicion. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head.What’s his angle? Is this another power play? A trap?
Good. She’s not entirely naive.
“Dinner?” she repeats warily.
“To continue this conversation,” I clarify smoothly though my internal monologue is screamingWhat the fuck are you doing? Dinner? Are you insane?
I quickly rationalize it. Strategic necessity. Gauge her personality outside the boardroom. Identify weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Keep the enemy close.
Yes. Purely tactical.
It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I want to see if that fire in her eyes persists over a glass of expensive wine.
Nothing at all.
She hesitates for a beat longer then gives a small sharp nod. “Fine, Mr. Blackwell. Dinner.”
“My office will send you the details.” I stand up, signaling the end of the meeting.
She stands, too, gathering her briefcase. Her composure is firmly back in place but there’s a new awareness in her eyes. Acknowledgment that the game just shifted onto unfamiliar territory.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Blackwell,” she says formally.
“Ms. Hammond.” I give her a curt nod, watching her walk towards the door.
She doesn’t look back.
The doors close behind her leaving me alone in the sudden silence of my office.
I rub the back of my neck.
What the hell just happened?
I came into this meeting planning to dismantle her arguments piece by piece. After watching her crumble, I intended to pounce by dictating the terms of surrender. Standard operating procedure.
Instead I listened. I considered her perspective. And I asked her to fucking dinner.
Don’t let that girl distract you.My father’s warning rings louder now.
Too late, maybe.
She’s already a distraction. A complication I didn’t anticipate and don’t quite understand. A variable messing with my carefully constructed equations.
