Page 152 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
Lucy
“So, Mark Blackwell’s initial financing seems… constrained.” Mr. Davies, our lead external counsel, leans back in his chair, looking almost pleased. Which, for Mr. Davies, is the emotional equivalent of doing cartwheels. After all, he’s a man whose steely gaze and astronomical hourly rate are equally terrifying. “Their usual lines of credit through Blackwell Holdings aren’t materializing for this specific bid. We suspect internal board resistance there.”
I blink, processing this. Internal resistance? At Mark Blackwell’s own company? That seems… unlikely. Unless…
Christopher? Could he have…?
No, that’s crazy.
Still, any hurdle in Mark’s path is good news. Maybe my frantic juggling act is actually working? Maybe we can actually fight off this hostile takeover?
Just then my phone vibrates discreetly on the conference table. A text message.
Fromhim.
Lucy. Strategic considerations regarding Project Nightingale and external pressures require discussion. Propose a private meeting at your earliest convenience to discuss a potential solution to our current situation. -C.
My breath catches. A potential solution. Toourcurrent situation. Not just the company’s situation.
Ours.
My heart does a stupid, hopeful leap, immediately followed by a nosedive of anxiety.
What kind of solution? Does he want to try again? Does he regret respecting my boundary?
Am I really ready for this conversation?
“Lucy?” Mr. Davies prompts, eyebrow raised.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, forcing my attention back to the meeting. “That’s… promising news, Mr. Davies. Let’s explore how we can leverage that constraint.”
While I simultaneously try to figure out how to leverage my own constrained heart back into some semblance of working order.
Despite the good news from the lawyers, despite the mountain of work still waiting, despite the professional wall I so dramatically erected… there’s no question.
I text back a simple:This evening?
His reply is instantaneous.7 PM. La Fenice. Private room reserved.
La Fenice. Small, ridiculously exclusive, known for its privacy.
Smart.
And terrifying.
I manage to get through the rest of the afternoon on autopilot, my mind racing. What solution could he possibly have? How can we bridge this gap between CEO Hammond and CEO Blackwell without one ofus getting metaphorically electrocuted by the conflict of interest?
Before heading out, I swing by the hospital. Dad is awake, looking better than yesterday, already complaining about the food. A good sign.
We chat for a bit, and I give him the positive (and heavily edited) update on the takeover defense, while he gives me unsolicited advice about managing the board (”Don’t trust Abernathy further than you can throw him, Lucy”).
Knowing he’s stable, safe, and not attempting any secret jogging missions allows me to leave with a slightly clearer conscience.
Tonight, for a few hours at least, I can focus on… us.
Or whatever‘us’is now.
Getting ready feels like preparing for diplomatic negotiations and a blind date simultaneously. Do I wear the ‘I am a competent CEO’ power suit? Or the ‘Please still like me even though I threw you under the bus’ slightly softer blouse?
