Page 21 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
The elevator doors open directly into my office. Minimalist, clean lines, priceless art I barely notice. It’s a fortress, designed for efficiency and solitude.
I notice something is amiss immediately.
Tatiana isn’t here.
A voice cuts through the quiet.
“Well, well. Finally decided to grace us with yourpresence?”
Fuck.
Elijah, you could have mentioned He was here!
Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan is my father. Perfectly tailored suit, silver goatee precisely trimmed, that cold, calculating look in his eyes that always sets my teeth on edge. He holds a tumbler of what I assume is my best scotch.
He never asks.
“Father,” I say, keeping my voice level. Showing irritation is showing weakness. “Unexpected visit. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Pleasure?” He scoffs, turning from the window. “Business, Christopher. Always business. I trust your little field trip to the museum of failed real estate was productive?”
He knows where I was. Of course he does. He probably has spies on my payroll, or worse, informants within Hammond’s crumbling walls.
“It was informative,” I reply, walking towards my office bar to pour myself a drink. Something stronger than scotch.
“Informative?” He follows me, his presence crowding my space. “Don’t give me that corporate bullshit. Did you close the deal? Did you put Richard Hammond out of his misery?”
“Negotiations are ongoing,” I say calmly, pouring two fingers of bourbon.
Father slams his tumbler down on the bar. Ice rattles. “Ongoing? What the hell is there to negotiate? They’re bankrupt! Offer pennies on the dollar, take the assets, gut the rest. It’s simple! It’s what wedo, Christopher.”
There it is. The royal ‘we.’ As if Blackwell Innovations is just an extension of his archaic empire. As if Ihaven’t built my own billion-dollar company on different principles. Mostly.
“It’smycompany, Father,” I remind him, my voice dangerously quiet. “Andmydeal. I employ strategies you might not appreciate. Subtlety has its place.”
“Subtlety?” He laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “Subtlety is for people who can’t afford to be direct. Richard Hammond is weak. His company is dying. You go in for the kill, Christopher. Rip out the throat. Don’t dance around with his little girl.”
My hand tightens around my glass. The mention of Lucy, dismissive and crude, sparks a surprising flare of anger. “Lucy Hammond happens to be the only competent person left in that entire organization,” I snap, losing the careful control for a second.
Father raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his cold eyes. “Oh? Is that right? Don’t tell me you’re letting sentiment cloud your judgment. Especially not over some desperate debutante trying to save daddy’s sinking ship.”
“My judgment is perfectly clear,” I bite back. “Hammond & Co. has certain legacy assets and brand recognition that might be more valuable preserved, albeit under new management. A hostile gutting could destroy that value.”
“Value?” He sneers. “The value is in the land, the portfolio you can flip, the competitors you eliminate. Everything else is noise. Don’t tell me you’re falling for that ‘legacy’ bullshit Richard has always peddled.”
“I’m assessing all angles,” I say stiffly. “Which is more than you ever did. Brute force isn’t always the most effective path.”
“It’s the cleanest,” Father counters. “Gets the job done. No messy partnerships, no lingeringobligations. You learned that lesson the hard way, didn’t you? Or have you forgotten what happened with Michael Vance?”
The mention of my former partner, the betrayal that cost me millions and reinforced every cynical lesson my father ever taught me, hits a raw nerve. He knows it will.
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” I say, my voice like ice. “Which is why I handle my business my way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Father studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a thin, predatory smile spreads across his face. “Fine. Handle it your way. But don’t come crying to me when your ‘subtle’ approach blows up in your face. And remember, Christopher, some opportunities only knock once. Don’t let sentiment, or a pretty face, make you hesitate.”
He picks up his scotch, drains it, and sets the empty glass back down with a decisive click. “I’ll see myself out.”
He walks towards the elevator without looking back. The doors slide shut, leaving me alone in the sudden silence, the echo of his condescending advice ringing in my ears.
