Page 34 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
I can almost feel the cold weight of his hand on my shoulder, hear his voice in my ear from decades ago as he gutted yet another company.
Look at him, Christopher. You see that man? He failed because he hesitated. Because he cared more about his employees than his bottom line. Never make that mistake.
“My company. My strategy,” I state. “Look, I have to go. Your scorched earth tactics are outdated anyway.” I can’t resist adding that latter bit.
“Outdated?” He laughs again, a harsh, grating sound. “My tactics built this empire, Christopher. The empire you benefit from, even while pretending you’re above it, you ungrateful little shit. Don’t forget where you came from. And don’t forget the pleasure in grinding a stupid fuck like Hammond into the dust.EspeciallyHammond.”
Something about that last comment makes me pause. “This is personal to you?”
“Everything in business is personal,” Father snarls over the line. “Especially when it involves winning. Don’t fuck this up by trying to be something you’re not. You’re my son. Act like it goddamn it! Dismantle Hammond. And quickly.”
The line clicks dead. He didn’t wait for a response. He never does.
I sit there, gripping the edge of the table, my knuckles white. The urge to hurl the entire console across the room is almost overwhelming.
But he is right about one thing. Iamhis son. I built Blackwell Innovations to escape his shadow, to prove I could succeed on my own terms. But have I? Or have I just refined his methods? Made themsleeker, more tech focused, but just as fucking ruthless? The Executioner. That’s what they call me.
Not the Builder.
Not the Innovator.
TheExecutioner.
Because I come in, swing the axe, and pick through the pieces. Success measured in acquisitions, market share, the sheer scale of my wealth.
And it feels… hollow.
So very hollow.
Lucy Hammond’s voice rings in my mind.
Your methods are ruthless, Mr. Blackwell.
She’s not wrong. Stripping assets and flipping companies isn’t building anything. It’s just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic for a profit before it sinks.
I walk to the window, staring down at the city twenty floors below. Cars stream like blood cells through concrete arteries. People hurrying, striving, going about their lives in a hurried rush, never taking the time to consider what it is they’re actually doing. I have the luxury of taking the time, and yet I don’t. I always press on at a rush, doing the same things I’ve always done, never pausing to consider the impact my actions might have on other people’s lives.
I’m a selfish son of a bitch.
I shake my head, and stare at the buildings before me. Hammond & Co. built parts of this skyline. Tangible things. Legacies etched in steel and stone. What have I built? A portfolio? A reputation for calculated destruction?
My father’s words echo.Act like it.Act like him. Is that my only path? Am I destined to become the thing I swore I wouldn’t? Domineering. Isolated. Measuring worth only in dollars and defeatedrivals. Always being selfish, never caring for anybody but myself?
Lucy’s face flashes in my mind again. Her defense of her father, her company, her employees. Her naive insistence on ethics in a cutthroat world. It’s foolish. Impractical. And yet… there’s a strength in it I hadn’t anticipated. Inher. A different kind of value.
Fuck.
What am I even thinking? This is Hammond Stockholm Syndrome. One tour of a dusty old building, one argument with a fiery blonde, and I’m questioning my entire business philosophy?
Get a grip.
Selfishness is good. Greed is good.
Just ask my idle Gordon Gekko.
But the unease lingers. The hollowness feels heavier today.
A name comes unbidden to my mind... Morgan Weiss.
