Page 142 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Our companies are partners, yes, but also separate entities. Potentially competitors in certain markets down the line. His goals, ultimately, are Blackwell’s goals. Mine must be Hammond’s.
Can I really accept his strategic advice on how to run my company? Can I let his team continue their deep dive into our most sensitive financial data, data that could potentially be used against us later, however unlikely that seems right now?
Can our intense, intimate personalrelationship survive the inherent conflicts of interest baked into our new professional reality?
The thought hits me with the force of a physical blow, right there in the sterile hospital waiting room. My new position. This permanent mantle of responsibility I just accepted out of love and duty… it might be the very thing that makes a future with Christopher impossible.
The conflict isn’t just external anymore... Mark Blackwell, Morgan Weiss.
It’s internal. It’s structural.
It’sus.
And staring at Christopher’s determined profile as he maps out our supposed joint strategy, I feel a fresh wave of panic rise.
What have I done?
41
Christopher
Lucy is sitting across from me in the private waiting room, tablet open. The eleven o’clock emergency session with the Hammond & Co. board went well. I had wanted her to go in person, but she refused to leave the hospital, and instead attended via teleconference.
The board ratified her appointment as permanent CEO after Morgan’s little coup attempt failed.
Fucker.
And now she’s prepping for the next meeting, the one where she has to lay out her actual strategy beyond just surviving the initial power grab.
She’s chewing on her lower lip, a small frown creasing her brow as she scrolls through financial projections. She looks… preoccupied. More than just the usual stress. There’s a new intensity there, a laser focus on proving herself, on embodying this role she never asked for but now fully owns.
“It’s just a title, Lucy,” I say quietly, breaking the silence. “CEO, Interim CEO… the job hasn’t changed overnight. You were already doing it.”
She looks up, her expression distant. “Itfeelsdifferent.”
“It shouldn’t,” I counter. “Nothing has to change between us because of a title.” I try to keep the edge out of my voice, but her sudden preoccupation, this subtle veil descending… it grates. We navigated corporate warfare, family sabotage, her father’s fucking near death.
A title shouldn’t be the thing that creates distance.
She gives a vague nod, her eyes already drifting back to the screen. “I know. Just… a lot to process.”
Distance. Definitely distance. Is this her putting up professional boundaries already? Raising her own walls? Or is this just the weight of the world landing squarely on her shoulders?
Fucking hell, I hate not knowing. Not being in control of the variables.
Fuck. I’m supposed to be the one raising the walls.
Not climbing them.
Before I can push further, her phone buzzes violently on the table. Then mine.
Tatiana’s text alert pings simultaneously.
Multiple breaking news notifications.
My blood runs cold before I even read the headlines flashing across the phone.
‘Mark Blackwell Launches Hostile Takeover Bid for Ailing Hammond & Co.’
